


too good to be true

by tatu28



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 80's Music, AU, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Romance, Bottom Harry, Bottom Louis, Boyfriends, Boys In Love, Dorks in Love, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Falling In Love, Family, Family Issues, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Harry Styles Calls Louis Tomlinson Pet Names, Harry Styles Loves Louis Tomlinson, Idiots in Love, Imagination, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Poetry, Loneliness, Louis Tomlinson Calls Harry Styles Pet Names, Louis Tomlinson Loves Harry Styles, Love, Love Confessions, Love Poems, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Music, Musical References, Non-Graphic Smut, Pet Names, Poetry, Romantic Soulmates, Sad, Sad and Beautiful, Sad and Sweet, Sassy Louis Tomlinson, Soulmates, Soulmates Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, THIS IS THE FIC YOUVE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOUR WHOLE LIFE, True Love, give it a chance, i promise it will be amazing, just trust me, poetic smut really, trust me - Freeform, up for interpretation really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 153,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25500430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatu28/pseuds/tatu28
Summary: you're just too good to be true,can't take my eyes off you.the one where louis doesn't sleep, harry doesn't function and all they need is each other.or: one lonely boy trying to heal another is love.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 131
Kudos: 236





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> to us,  
> the lonely ones,  
> whose heads are always in a different galaxy,  
> far far away.  
> A.  
> 

** I **

** THE BEGINNING  **

**September 6th **

It's 06:13 am.

It's been 37 hours since Louis last slept.

49 since he last ate.

As he stares at the roof, he repeats to himself that all this waiting is a courtesy. Sticking around until she wakes up is nothing more than a show of good manners. A favour. Louis Tomlinson, one last time, the well-behaved boy. She should be proud.

"Always let me know when you're leaving, Louis", she asks. It’s an empty request, he is aware. It’s probably a concern she believed to be a good mother's trait. "Please, don't stay out too late, baby". Despite her sweet words, for younger-Louis, her demands always felt empty and he never really understood why. He felt guilty for comparing her with other maternal figures he knew, felt guilty for not feeling loved; felt ungrateful and needy. As the years passed, the indifference became too evident to be ignored, the disinterest dripping from her voice. She is always someplace else, Louis' mother, no matter how much he may need her. She finds the inside of her mind safer and Louis tries not to blame her for it anymore. Reality isn't for everyone. Neither is motherhood.

During her younger years, she could have been a supermodel if only she could hide the sadness in her eyes long enough to walk down a catwalk. Silky cinnamon hair; sharp cheekbones and undeniable charm; lighter than a feather. She would have been unforgettable in the modelling industry, Louis is sure of it. Obviously, it wouldn't be fair for all that beauty to come paired with mental stability. There’s always a price to pay and hers was her health. Not that Louis considers her sick; he doesn't. That is actually the problem and the reason why he resents her, as much as he wishes he didn't. She treats her detachment not as an issue, but as an award; not a sickness, a prize. As if after bargaining with fate, she gladly accepted her trophy, self-isolating in her mental palace, lost inside her mind, abandoning Louis in reality with a father that way too soon became nothing more than a memory. She deliberately chose to be nothing but a tourist in reality; a woman so lovely that must stay submerged in the private ocean of memories with which she flooded her mind. Always sunk in a comfortable sadness. For her, the detachment is not a burden, it's a blessing.

Louis envies her, even if she doesn't notice, even if she doesn't care. He is the receiver of a lousy gift; he is the heir of an empty promise. The neglected prodigal son and his broken genetics. For Louis, something is always missing; he always falls short. His birth was nothing but a half-hearted hug, where she kept her secrets to herself and left Louis alone to make do with the remnants. All the worthy traits kept safely locked inside her mind. Selfishly, she couldn't bear to share. Louis still doesn't understand why. If she knew she was going to be away, why didn't she take him with her? Why leave him behind, alone? Isn't it cruel to raise children that will have to recover from childhood? Louis wishes he could have bargained with fate as well. He hoped he would be given a choice, given a chance. He was born ready for it, honestly. He feels it in his blood: a family line that dances on top of that thin line between reality and daydreaming. Louis always knew what he would choose. Sanity is nothing but a cosy lie, overestimated. If he could taste it, he would also hold on to his detachment as a prize; wear it proudly on his distant eyes. They aren't so different, Louis and his mother; it's genetics after all. Obeying the sacred rule about the thickness of blood, he would be ready to follow her on a heartbeat, effortlessly. He wouldn't be afraid of going insane; the only real problem always is the long intervals of horrible sanity.

Not a day goes by where Louis doesn’t think about the infinite possibilities he would have if he had that same detachment skill, if he could just dance his way out of reality like she does. Louis pictured it all, a thousand times. If their minds were similar. If they were more compatible. She would love him more, he just knows it, and he would feel worthy of her love. Louis has pictured it all: the both of them sharing fantasies as if they were inside jokes; taking a moment too long to answer anyone else's questions; having to tune in reality again; murmuring meaningless words and dancing to made up songs; always surprised by food deliveries they did not remember ordering. Slowly, distantly and together, making their way through life. Reality would be nothing but an old country house, stale and lonely, that they would only visit in the summer, only if they wanted to. Their stays would be short and they would soon return to their private ocean, floating in a pure water made out of fantasies, while simultaneously running their fingers through the shining stars. If their minds were similar, this life wouldn’t be so bad after all. Louis wishes he could escape this reality for a while, knows that he deserves it.

It’s Louis’ wildest fantasy by far: sharing his mother's haze of lunacy. Companionship. Belonging. The whole package. Louis is not greedy, just lonely and creative. It doesn't do well to dwell on it, though; too tempting and too unreachable. The truth is that they could never share a fantasy. They are not similar where it matters. For some unknown reason, the secret ocean in which his mother submerges is made out of memories. Melancholic memories. Her sad eyes give her away. She swims in regret and dives into loneliness, waves of misery crushing in. That's what she traded reality with Louis for. The thought is a knife through his heart. She chose unhappy solitude and has the audacity to perceive it as an honored decision. If Louis could shape reality's barriers as easily as she can, he would become the god of his own paradise. He would create heaven in his mind. A kingdom of bliss. A utopia of delight. A universe of pleasure. Oceans and oceans of honey and roses. Constellations of laughter and nebulae of fondness. That is the difference between them: if Louis could, he would drown in a sea of euphoria. He would die of passion before sadness. He is, what people call, an optimist. Unlike her. She cultivates her darkest memories as if they were flowers from a garden which she can only see the thorns. She revisits each one of them by deliberately grabbing the flowers by those thorn, painfully picking one at a time, intentionally hurting her fingers as if it’s a well-deserved pain. Her drops of blood watering her memory garden, making sure it stays alive, stays hurtful.

Not for the first time, Louis swallows thickly, worried and tormented, perceiving how wrong she truly is; perceiving the deepness of her mistake. It’s a thought that keeps coming back to him whenever he tries to analyze his mother’s mind. She may trick herself into believing that she’s safe from reality, but she is just stuck with her own mind, locked in an unescapable cell with her own memories. She lives in her personal purgatory, both the victim and the punisher, paying alive for her sins. In Louis' opinion, her brain is stuck in a looping of her unhappiest memories; must be tiring and painful and also, repetitive. How many times can you re-watch your husband's departure until it becomes boring? How about being laid-off from your dream job by that creepy rude fellow? Doesn't revisiting the bullying you suffered as a kid lose its charm after the 100th time? Giving up on your first love? Growing old? Down the road, Louis' disappearance may even make it to her hall of fame. It can become one of the moments she keeps losing herself to, another memory to which she can escape. Louis is making her a favor. He is broadening her repertoire. It's like showing her a new song or taking her to see a brand-new movie.

Furthermore, he is feeling generous. It's a parting gift: he will respect at least one of her requests this time. He will let her know when he will be leaving - as soon as she does - and as she has no clue about how permanent his decision is, he will secretly say goodbye. As he said, a favor. Politeness. Louis is a good son.

Good, but not tireless. He isn't invincible. The last years have been hard, but the last couple of days have been hell and Louis is exhausted. He is lonely and he feels trapped; like he is burning from within, watching his life pass him by. If a doctor were consulted, Louis would be classified as a patient on the verge of a breakdown. No doctors were consulted, though, and Louis had only his intuition to guide him into the realization that he can't stay. He can’t stay here. In this house, it's way too easy to picture the rest of his existence, meaningless and restricted to his comfort zone, which scares him more than anything. If he stayed, all that would be left of his spirit would be a failed version of himself, misunderstood, living in a reality he doesn't fit in. Louis refuses to live the same year 75 times and call it a life. And, in all honesty, there is no going back. It's been a long time since he convinced himself he deserves better and that kind of idea is powerful, it's irreversible. He deserves a chance to build a good life and that won't happen here. He has to go.

Everything is scary, sure, but Louis is determined now. Today is the day. The fuel for his decision was a complex mixture. The elixir of all good decisions. You must grab a bottle of vodka - gin is fine too, if that's what you got - and add some uncontrollable impatience. Mix it up with a couple of packs of cigarettes, a lot of sleep deprivation and several bottled-up feelings of parental rejection. A couple of coffee mugs can't do no harm, especially in the middle of the night. Oh, it's a recipe for one, forgot to mention. No one to share it with. Slowly, add two spoons of irritation, two or three drops of hidden resentment and boom. You're good to go (away from your mother's house). Who would have known that it would take Louis only 23 years to finally find the right incentive?

In the 11:31 pm coldness, he decided he'd had enough. Guess that today really is the day after all.

At 01:47 am, Louis packed his bag. The Bag. The one he promised himself he wouldn't, unless dying felt like a more pleasurable alternative than staying.

At 03:39 am, the letter was written.

At 04:15 am, it felt like there was nothing left to do.

Still, for the last two hours, he's been waiting for her to wake up. He's lying in his bed, shaking with anticipation and from the cold. Apprehensive. He is well aware of the anti-climax of the whole situation and it deeply frustrates him: after years of waiting, he still has to wait some more. He is vibrating, but he doesn't leave his bed. He has obviously considered seizing the opportunity of being the only one awake in the house to leave; forced himself to see her unusual morning absence as a sign to just escape already. But this strategy, running away like a scared rat, in the middle of the morning, is a tad too similar to his father's method: his joke of a resignation from a marriage that had already lasted for far too long; too fed up; too tired to even bother waiting for the dawn. Climbing out of his window while his mother is still sound asleep seems pretty close to a validation of his father's decision for Louis’ taste. Louis doesn't support cowards, so he waits. Mornings are for hope, for tea and for beginnings, anyway; he can at least wait until she leaves for work. It's only decent.

But fuck decent. It is not about politeness, no matter how many times he swears it is; no matter how much he wishes it was. It is about love. Louis loves her endlessly. Always will. His need is only fair. He has to look into her eyes one last time; marvel at seeing all that he is, reflected back at him, as if her eyes hold the key to his universe. He needs to memorize all of her features, so similar to his own. The same delicate mouth, the button nose, their starry eyes. He needs to admire her watered-down fierceness, still burning, still blazing after all those years, underneath that sadness. He has to pay his respects to the woman who made him who he is, without knowing if he will see her again. He cares about her too much, in a way she can't understand; it's a lot when it's not mutual. He wants to worship her mind one last time, her challenging mind, the uncontrollable, the secret; he will thank it for all the ways it molded who Louis is; how it made him who he is. He wants to miss her while still feeling her near. Just once. It's vital for the rest of his life. He needs to be looking at her while reciting, silently, his goodbyes. At least once, their isolation from one another will be useful; the walls of her mental palace too high for her to listen to what Louis is shouting from his mind. She won't know, but she will later understand. In the silence that they will soon share, in the looks they will soon exchange, she will comprehend that Louis asked for her forgiveness; asked for her understanding and for her patience, and for all of the things he couldn't write down in the letter. She will later find out that in that moment, he forgave her; he loved her; he thanked her. And that is all that matters.

For now, he lies on his bed, anxiously staring at the flaking ceiling paint. He is not going to back away, he simply knows it this time. This is the day where he leaves and the feeling of certainty drips like ice water on the bottom of his spine. Louis convinces himself that it is the freshness of freedom. A bit of anticipation chills. He's been trying and failing to get his breathing under control. He tries closing his eyes only to immediately open them again. It must be the coffee. And the vodka. And the last couple of sleepless nights. Either way, he can't risk falling asleep, not now. Louis feels trapped in the weirdest mix of boredom and anxiety, fidgety and extremely tired. A shaken can of alcohol and Red Bull. He feels sick. He turns on his belly. At least in this new position, he will stop staring at his father's lousy job with the room's painting. Trying to find something to do while he waits, Louis lets his hand wander in the space beneath the bed. As he knew it would, his hand ends up bumping into his Bag, the emergency one. Louis opens the zipper without thinking and grabs the folded sheet of paper he knew it was there. It was only strategic, keep all the going-away-stuff together. An adventure bundle; Louis loves the idea. Before he knows it, he's sitting in his bed, cross-legged, opening the paper sheet. He hates himself for knowing all along that he was going to reread the letter again. There's no such thing as a wandering hand, he was looking for it specifically. He needs to read it once more. Seventh time's a charm.

_Mom,_

_I don't blame you, ok? Need you to know that._

_I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope you can understand. I'm sure you will._

_Please, take care of yourself._

_I love you, mom._

_I'm so so sorry._

_L_

And that is it. That is the best he could do. After 23 years of living in each other's pockets, that is how Louis officially says goodbye. He is just keeping it short, that's what he tells himself. Or maybe his fluency was clouded by the emotions and, honestly, no one's really prolix when leaving a goodbye letter. It is, without a doubt, the second hardest thing Louis has ever done. The hardest was not having done it sooner. He admires his ugly handwriting - "bad calligraphy, Louis" - and wonders if there's much to say after all. It's pretty much all there. All the guilt. All the apologies. She will understand. It's always been a relationship of few words, he comforts himself. There are not enough words in the English language to express how he feels, anyway, so he hopes they meet in the silence between them. He hopes they meet again. The thought makes something dirty stir in the bottom of Louis' stomach and he quickly shoves the letter into the bag. The fact that the bag is packed, by itself, it's already a sign: he has never gotten this far before. Today is the day. Louis stands up from his bed determined and is about to go looking for another pack of cigarettes when he hears a noise from the kitchen. He drops everything on the floor near the armchair. It's goodbye time. Fucking finally.

He leaves his room like a tornado and climbs down the stairs as a boy on a mission. He can't remember the last time he slept, he's a ball of fire. Energetic. Determined. But just as his right foot hits the floor, he slows down. Something is different. It feels like a different atmosphere. All in slow motion. Louis feels as if he passed through a portal. The first floor is warmer, more comfortable than his room somehow. Cozier. Their house is never warm, especially at this time of the year; the heating bills way too expensive. Louis slowly makes his way to the kitchen. Gently. Lazily. Time seems to pass slower down here. It feels gravity-less. Entering the empty kitchen, Louis feels calm. He can't remember the last time he felt this way. In his mind, he breathes for the first time in three days. Louis can't detect the source of noise he heard before, but does that even matter? There's a pleasant atmosphere around him; Louis feels immersed in a serenity bubble. He takes a look around the kitchen and notices that on top of its table sits an open Styrofoam packaging. He can easily see, from where he stands, the Beany Mug's logo, the cheap cafeteria across the hospital his mother works on. He can also see that there are pancakes inside the packaging. Their food is usually greasy and rubbery but it's affordable and that is what his mom's appetite seems to care more about. Price rather than taste. An economic stomach. For Louis, it doesn't matter. He doesn't care about food at all. Or rather, he cares about it obsessively. Unhealthy. He approaches the table anyway, expecting to find the usual tasteless mess, but instead the pancakes look like they would taste delicious. It all seems to match the cozy kitchen atmosphere. The soft white curtains are half-open and the sun’s candid light seeps through the windows, bathing the kitchen in a comfy shade of yellow. The cold from his room is gone. In its place, a warm fuzzy feeling, so heated that it is almost unrecognizable. The house is absolutely silent, serene, and the sunlight hits the center of the kitchen table, right where the pancakes sit, now all tempting and untouched. For a second, the sweet smell, previously undetectable, the soft light and the undisturbed quietness make Louis feel like he hasn’t woken up, like he is still in a dream, inserted in a rare, peaceful moment of silence and almost, almost, happiness. In a moment like this, separated from reality, lost in time and space, when he feels like the only person that exists in the world, even the pancakes seem like a good idea. They look like they would taste warm, fluffy and sweet. Louis guesses that maybe, just maybe, they taste like something more. Maybe their taste is acceptance, approval, or maybe it's just normality. He would give anything for normality. Maybe they taste like joy. Feeling giddy and lucky, willing to make a bet, Louis approaches the table and the warm sunlight heats his face. He grabs a small – always small – piece and takes a bite. They just taste like calories. And, of course, they do. What was he even thinking?

The disappointment and regret seem to wake him up from his delicious state of inertia and, for the first time since climbing down the stairs, Louis feels cold. He feels as if his serenity bubble burst, leaving behind not sadness, but reality. Which, in some ways, is way worse. He settles for beginning his daily process of making tea, setting two teacups on the table when he hears a creak coming from the living room. He can hear her steps before he can see her and the anticipation of seeing her hurts just the same as it did all the days before this one. The fear of the disinterest in her eyes. A moment later, she appears, adding up to the painful process of returning to the real world. It should be ridiculous that she looks this good with bed head, on a pinkish nightgown paired with a dark blue overcoat and red slippers, but Louis is used to it by now. He attributes it to the disinterest magnetism; the charm she carries due to always appearing unreachable. A model. She looks delicate, disinterested, made for fashion campaigns. The dark blue overcoat is probably the reason why she went to the living room in the first place; there is where she keeps all her winter coats, in a rack by the front door.

\- Oh, Lou, you scared me. Up so early, sweetie?

Although Louis finds it unsettling that, before her mention, he had lost his real sense of how early it in fact is, at least for his sleepless weekend patterns, he chooses to simply focus on his mother’s face. She looks at him with concern, which is a strong indicative that she may be more present than usual. In moments like this, where she expresses troubling emotions towards him, Louis wonders guiltily if her fast-paced aging is his responsibility somehow. If she is just too shocked with what she sees in him when she actually gives him her attention. Her eyes travel from his face to the pancakes and, as she notices the small missing bite, a tiny cautious smile takes over her lips. Sometimes she acts as if it's a secret between them, Louis' thing. Sometimes she just forgets all about it. She's unpredictable like this and Louis never knows what to expect.

\- Yeah, just couldn’t sleep, mom.

In a blink of an eye, the small smile vanishes and her expression turns sour. She really is listening, then. It is one of those moments where she is here with him, only floating in her mind's secret ocean; floating, not drowning. She is on the surface. Good. Unexpected, but good. At least it makes Louis' goodbye more meaningful. He will be saying goodbye to the real woman behind all the haze. Good. Louis can do that. Her expression is still sour and her eyes flash with concern. Louis secretly loves this feeling, the feeling that blossoms in his heart when she acts as if she's responsible for him. It's his guilty pleasure. In all honesty, her heartbrokenness is nothing new. Louis used to play a game of guesses in his head when he was younger, trying to pinpoint the causes that led his mother to be so intensely taken by melancholy. Young Louis’ plan was to find a way to destroy all of them, eliminating all the reasons for sadness. Unless he was involved. It was a different story, if that was the case. If his mother was sad because of him, it meant an amount of interest, responsibility and care that Louis just couldn't give up. He never made her sad on purpose, obviously not, but it felt so warm when she worried about him. When she actually cared enough to worry. Those occasions were rare, though, and he had way too many opportunities to play his guessing game. During his childhood, Louis’ guesses were: a load of dirty hospital clothes, washed in the late hours of night, made his mother extremely sad. As well as, inexplicably, the 20th of each month. The unwanted wisdom eventually came and, with the passage of years, Louis has come to realize that the dirty clothes meant another patient lost at the hospital and the 20th was the day to wait for the money that – just like his payer – never came. His mother looks at him now with a face she carries once in a while, a face of an impotent woman, faced with much more than she can handle or change; a woman faced with a destiny she does not want and does not deserve. He understands why she doesn't particularly enjoy returning to reality. Louis guesses that it was with this resigned frustration, with this barely-successful attempt to silence a panic that hasn’t yet exploded, that she looked at his father on that fateful day. Better yet, looked at his father’s back, disappearing out of sight, without signs of hesitation or regret. Louis strongly hopes that was not the expression she had on her face during his birth.

\- What happened, baby? Nightmares again?

Louis should have never told her that. It was a long time ago and it wasn't even that bad. She always remembers the wrong things about him, it is deeply annoying.

\- No, mom, actually I just… 

\- I see you’ve taken a bite of the pancakes. Do they taste alright?

She asks as she does not know the answer. She asks like the fact Louis would rather set himself on fire than touch any food is something she is not aware of. Always unpredictable. The bite – the unfulfilling, already regretted, bite – was only meant as a celebration for the previous shaky moment of almost happiness. It was meant as a celebration for the special day ahead. Today is a special day.

\-  Today is a special day, mom. 

Somehow, her look of concern intensifies.

\- And why’s that, sweetie?

She asks - curiously, attentive - as she pulls the chair to the kitchen table.

Louis has this theory, it's almost a scientific law for him, tested and proven, that his mother's brain works in a compensatory way. She is aware that she isn't really in the present most of the time. She knows about her detachment from real life. She still doesn't regret it, that's not what Louis believes. What he believes, better yet, what he knows is that when she is, in fact, present, she tries to compensate. At least she does with him. As if she has a need, an urgency, to be submerged into something, whatever it may be; if it can't be her mind, then let it be reality. She needs something else beside herself. For her, the silence is deafening. In those compensatory outbreaks, she asks about everything there is to ask, as if she were an old distant relative who hasn't visited for years. She goes into this frenzy of questions like a student in an unmissable class by an amazing teacher, writing everything down on her brain. She doesn't write it down, though, and all the information is lost when she disconnects again. All the answers wasted. It is sad. Louis' body usually goes rigid when she enters this state of compensation just because it is as unpredictable as the rest of her mind is. Once, a couple of years ago, sitting on the same chair she is sitting now, she stared out the window for hours. Louis was happy to keep her company, sitting on the other side of the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone. Suddenly, as if she just snapped out of her reverie, her eyes left the window and landed on his face. She stared at him for a long moment. Attentively, lovingly, amazed. And then she whispered, most to herself, impressed: "You grew up so much. You grew up so beautifully". She began sobbing in the next second. Her uncontrollable crying lasted the following hour and Louis hugged her through it. It only stopped when she left him again, snuggling into her mind's cocoon. To this day, Louis wonders how long she had been seeing him as her faceless son. Unimportant. Banal.

Now, contrary to all his usual reactions, he feels himself relaxing. Even if they are clearly experiencing another compensatory outbreak, he decides to simply let go and, happily, eagerly, feels the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach returning. He will try to enjoy her company while she is here, while he is here.

\- Louis, are you listening?

\-  Yes, mom. I'm listening. 

He says in a bored voice, he can't help it. He turns his head to send a smile her way and finds that she is already smiling fondly at him. Ignoring all previous experiences, Louis lets his mind free. In moments like this, he feels as if she isn't a tourist in his world anymore, as if she is here to stay, a permanent resident in reality, not going anywhere else. He feels selfish for wanting to lock her up in his world, but he allows himself the pleasure of daydreaming with her completely recovering her sanity and with they both living a loving, happy, normal life. At least the daydreams he deserves. Louis smiles at her for a second longer and turns around to finish setting up their tea.

\- You won't be lonely, will you, Lou?

Maybe she is only overcompensating and asking questions about hypothetical futures she fears she won't be here to witness. Dead or away. Same thing. Still, she asks as if she knows all about Louis's plan, as if she knows he is leaving, and his heart skips a beat. She doesn't know. There is no way she could have found out. For a second, Louis wonders if she has a clairvoyant heart to match her travelling mind. Or maybe it is a trait of all mother's hearts to simply know when it is about to be hurt. Reaching the future before anyone else. Louis always suspected mothers had some sort of witch powers anyway.

\-  No, mom, I won't. I'll be fine by myself. 

She takes a deep breath as an upset child would. There's a pout on her lips. She is all emotions when she is like this. Here. It is almost cute to watch.

\- Don't want you to be alone, Lou.

He finishes both their teas and turns to the table, sitting on a chair while passing her the tea he made exactly the way she likes it.

\- Then, I won't. I’ll marry a man who knows how I take my tea, my coffee and my alcohol and knows when to make which. 

She laughs loudly and in her laugh, he can taste her goodbye. She looks happy like this, in the soft morning light. Well-rested and present. He will make this one chuckle his souvenir for harder days. If they had nothing else, they had this. It's more than enough for Louis.

\- Promise me you will go on romantic dates by the moonlight.

They both giggle now.

\- Oh yes, mom. 

Louis confirms it ironically as he raises his teacup for a toast. His mother joins him.

\- May the full moon heal us all. 

She is smiling again, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Her laugh this time is almost not there. It is as if she is beginning the passage to her mind palace again. Louis will let her go. In a second. He isn't ready yet; just needs her here for a moment longer.

\- Will you, mom? Be lonely? 

\- Oh, Louis…

There are pinches of sadness in her eyes, but they almost disappear in the sea of condescendence. She looks at him as if she is the queen of loneliness and he is nothing but a peasant in her kingdom. She may be right. Those blue eyes, so similar to his own, judge him for his stupidity in asking a question whose answers he cannot understand. Maybe his mother's kingdom is her mind. The loneliness fortress. Louis feels pressured to bow and apologize, wishing a long life to the queen. The coldness he prepared himself for is not what he receives, though. When she speaks again, her voice is tender and loving. A mother teaching her son a lesson; giving him life advice. Louis is avid.

\- You know, your grandfather used to say that living is like licking honey off a thorn.

\- I see…

\- There's always pain and pleasure, Louis. It's through the wounds that the light enters you.

\- You already have enough light, mom.

He thinks twice before complementing his phrase. His motivation to do so is the uncertainty about when will he see her again. The uncertainty about whether she will see him then.

\- Time to lick the honey and heal those fucking wounds.

There's no anger in his voice. He speaks as calmly and as affectionately as she did. It is the only way she will absorb anything he's saying. He knows she hasn't healed, he can tell by how sad she is. He doesn't know about the causes, though; not enough. She always kept her cards close to her chest, her locked treasure chest, when it comes to topics that truly matter. Beyond that, there are too many traumatic experiences to choose from. All Louis knows is that something is not right. She is hurt and her pain radiates. Louis fears that by licking her wounds alone, she is simply keeping them open; prolonging the suffering. He wished she would have let him help. He wishes for the key to her impenetrable mind kingdom so he could help the queen fight off the dragon and face her feelings, healing in a happy ending. Louis, the dedicated peasant; the brave knight; the loving son.

She keeps looking at him for a moment. Nine heartbeats pass. She finishes her tea with an approving nod and delicately sets the teacup on the table. A small smile appears.

\- Life is too short to spend it at war with yourself, Lou.

She then proceeds to slowly lay back, like she usually does, tilting the kitchen chair until it hits the wall behind her. At this inclined angle, she takes both her feet off the ground. Eyes closed. A dangerous habit, in Louis' father's opinion. Louis wished his father had taken all his opinions with him when he left. Instead, he left them all floating around the house like ghosts haunting the already abandoned. Double penance is always unjust. Objectively, it is a dangerous position. The chair may slip anytime. Somehow, they both know it won't.

\-  So you just let it go?

She nods. Close-eyed, inclined, foot off the floor.

\- You empty yourself and let the universe fill you.

Although it really isn't, it sounds prophetic. It sounds deep. Sitting here, now, with her, it feels like Louis received a life philosophy. And an instruction. It must be the warmth or the soft morning light. Again, Louis feels that inexplicable coziness. An subt pleasure coming from somewhere undetectable. The serenity bubble is back, yay! Louis watches his mother for a long moment: close-eyes, inclined, foot off the floor, relaxing. He feels tempted to do the same. The wall behind him must be at approximately the same distance that his mother's chair is from the opposite wall. It's going to work. Louis lays back until his chair hits the wall. Trusting the warm feeling in his belly, he takes his foot off the floor. He tilts his head back. Only then, he closes his eyes. He starts breathing slower, deeply. You empty yourself and let the universe fill you. It feels like she confided to him the secret he begged for all his life. Finally. It's like she handed him a key. It feels perfect. In the kitchen silence, Louis feels like they are meditating. Together.

He can't tell for how long they stayed like that, immersed in a pleasant soft haze, but when Louis hears the doorbell ring, it is like he was waiting for it for a long time. Hoping and longing for it. Without knowing - or maybe knowing it deep down inside - that sound is everything he ever wanted. He opens his eyes as quickly as he can. He feels finally awake. Ready. His mother, on the other hand, does not acknowledge the doorbell, which is strange. The sound usually acts as an alarm, as a whistle, capturing her back to reality. She even answered the door before. Not anymore, though. Louis wonders if she just got tired of answering the door to undesirable guests or to anyone who’s not his father. He wonders if she’s so deeply traumatized to never go to their front step again; speculates if that’s why she always uses the backdoor while leaving silently to her shifts at the hospital in the middle of the night. Quietly, alone, in the dark. The perfect opposite of the departure of the loud, unforgettable man who’s never coming back. Unlike his mother, Louis does not hold any grudge towards their front door and the small space of concrete and wood only gains his attention in the few moments when the food delivery arrives. Then, and only then, Louis gets as far away from the front door as he possibly can. Now, though, he only wants to get closer.

His chair hits the floor with a thump and he stands up as a lightning. That seems to get his mother's attention as she delicately lets her own chair hit the kitchen floor and looks at him with curious eyes. He can't help but laugh. Her eyes morph from doubt to concern. He somehow understands, only now, that the sound of the doorbell is also the sound of freedom. As he begins to leave the table, her eyes grow larger and she tries to reach him, stretching her arm without standing up, trying to hold him back one last time while still ignoring the wonderful, wonderful sound. Her voice drips with a concern Louis wished to hear for many years. He barely notices it now.

\- Louis, where are you going?

Louis does not have an answer. It should worry him and it would, if it wasn't for the passionate feeling that he simply has to go. The sooner, the better. He already waited too long for it.

\- Out.

He feels like running. He is already out of the kitchen when he softly hears her murmur, sounding way more distant than it actually is.

\- Lou, just promise you’ll eat something.

He doesn't have time to think about it now. Not now. As he starts to climb up the stairs to his room the doorbell seems to be getting more incessant, as eager as he is. He decides, then, that there is no need for wallets nor phones. Unimportant details. All he needs to do is get to the front door. He turns all the way around from one step to the next and climbs down the stairs in a blink of an eye. He flies by the kitchen and is just about to reach the living room hallway when his right foot gets stuck beneath a fake persian carpet his father left behind. The carpet is extremely tacky, clearly a knock off, and Louis always avoided stepping on it when he was younger, as if it was too ugly to deserve to be a part of young Louis' path. Young Louis was wiser. Louis should have followed his rules. Now, with a foot stuck in an ugly left-behind carpet, Louis trips. He tries to balance his weight and before he knows it, he is falling. Backwards. It is not beautiful. The fall lasts a total of two embarrassing seconds. The part of his body that first makes contact with the floor is the top of his head. It hurts. He can hear the loud thump his head makes when it hits the floor and that is all he hears for a while.

When he comes back to his senses, he comes back to only part of his senses. Firstly, his eyes are closed. No sight. Secondly, he can't hear a thing. He feels like his ears are clogged, as if he is stuck in a soundless bubble in the middle of his living room floor. No hearing. After discarding the possibility of being dead - he must spare the world from the impossibility of recovering from the loss of a wonder boy like Louis Tomlinson - he gives himself a couple more seconds to enjoy this limbo post-fall before opening his eyes. There's the living room ceiling. Hey, living room ceiling. It's your boy, Louis. Nice. He isn't dead yet. No persian knock-off carpet can kill him easily like this. Maybe a Versace can try next time. Louis snorts. It's all funny. His fall must have been hilarious to watch. If it had been recorded, Louis would already be famous on Youtube. The falling celebrity. Oh, the pleasures of having a shitty dad that leaves his shitty carpets behind. Louis snorts again. It should hurt everywhere, or at least on his head, but all Louis feels is an uncontrollable desire to laugh. So he does. Loudly. His laugh is the first sound he hears after the terrible thump between his head and the floor. Isn't life wonderful? Look at that upgrade. Started from the bottom, now he's - well, still at the bottom, literally lying on the floor. Louis laughs harder. Everything's funny. It all feels lighter, simpler. Even his laugh sounds lovely to him. And as if things couldn't get any better, he hears it. The doorbell rings again and the sound is prettier than his own laugh. Once again, it feels long expected and freeing. Louis stands up immediately, glares at the ugly carpet and rushes to the front door. The doorbell rings once again before Louis reaches it, seeming just as eager as he is.

When he gets to it, he doesn't take his time to fix his hair nor to catch his breath and just opens the door, ready to greet whoever is on the other side. When his eyes land on his guest though, his welcoming words die on his lips and Louis doubts his ability to elaborate sentences altogether. Louis might as well have forgotten everything. Everything but this private universe, looking at him with wide, scared eyes from his front door. Staring at the boy in front of him, Louis feels as if everything he has ever lost came back to him. Everything he sees, everything he smells; the height, the curls, the now gentle smile and the green, green, green eyes, so kind and confident. In front of Louis, stands a boy who must be a king. It is, without a doubt, so much more than Louis could ever deserve. The boy, looking just as intrigued as Louis, beams and blinks slowly, seems to be carefully choosing what to say. Feeling eager, Louis beats him to it. The king's name flows out of Louis' mouth with immense tenderness. It is already Louis' favourite name; Louis' suspects it always has been.

\-  Hey, Harry. 

Louis' voice seems to bring the boy back from his state of reverence and absolutely bliss. As his eyes uncloud, Harry has the courtesy to look shy, even if it is just for a fraction of a second.

\- Hey, Lou.

And, without missing a beat:

\- Have you eaten yet?

Louis rolls his eyes immediately.

\- Oh, not this again, curly. I thought you were taking me somewhere special.

\- And I am. Right after breakfast.

The way Harry smiles after sassing Louis, like he is somehow proud of his ridiculous answer, brings a matching smile to Louis' face. Standing still, focused on Louis, Harry's eyes shine with unbreakable certainty that he is the only person in the world capable of convincing Louis to do something he refuses. Harry clearly thinks he can persuade Louis into, essentially, anything. Louis would mock him for it, if he wasn't so dangerously close to the truth.

Louis is about to answer when his mother's voice pierces through his ears like a disturbing alarm clock, waking him up from the dream that is Harry.

\- Louis, are you still there? What was that noise?

The last thing Louis needs is for his mother to disturb this wonderful, wonderful exchange or, even worse, somehow destroy Harry's very secret, special plans. Harry is for Louis' eyes only. No one but Louis gets to experience this private, breathtaking universe that is Harry, Louis' king. Directing his attention back at Harry's face, Louis sees a small trace of wariness passing through his eyes. Quick. Fleeting. It would be impossible for anyone else to notice, but Louis is nothing if not a Harry specialist. His boy looks tense. As Louis easily tracks his mother's voice as the source for Harry's tension, the boy seems to be getting more and more insecure, suddenly deeply interested in his own shoes. And that just won't do. Louis would burn London to the ground if that was what it would take to make the boy smile. The easiest decision Louis ever took was leaving the house, silently shutting the front door, and grabbing Harry's hand, pulling him away from the doorstep. Unapologetic, Louis feels free.

When the sun hits Harry's hair, in all its chestnut glory, as soon as they leave the covered porch, Louis feels a tightness in his chest, the good type of tightness. He is so lucky it is unfair. His hand is still holding Harry's; Harry who has been a constant in Louis' life. Louis' compass star. They are always so in sync, Louis suspects Harry might as well be a mind reader. He hasn't managed to test this theory yet. Harry knows everything there is to know about Louis - well, almost everything; the good, the bad and the ugly - and not only stuck around, but still acts as if Louis is the most fascinating sight he has ever seen. Like Louis is a complex puzzle or a renaissance painting that deserves attention and worshiping. Harry acts like Louis hasn't lost his charm after all those years, like Louis hasn't become dull. He makes Louis feel cared for, putting a stop to the loneliness. He makes Louis feel real. Alive. And is there anything more marvellous than finding someone who makes you feel alive? Louis is so lucky it is unfair. All these thoughts are not something Louis is just realizing now while he admires the sunlight hitting Harry's mop of hair in just the right way. It's something he always knew, part of who he is. He would have exploded if he didn't have Harry. Harry slipped under his skin, invading his mind and seizing his heart a long time ago; there's pretty much nothing he can do about that now. It was inevitable and permanent. That is probably the only thing in the universe that he and Harry haven't discussed and may also be the only blind spot to Harry's - thank God - flawed mind reading skills: how catastrophically in love with Harry Louis is. Harry doesn't suspect which is great since his pity will probably kill Louis and in the great scheme of things, it doesn't matter. There's no need for a happy ending if he is happy right now. Really. It will pass. Louis is already getting more than he deserves with the whole best-friends-for-life deal. When he first looked at Harry standing by the door, he felt as if they were old friends who have just then met. As if everything is both new and familiar; exciting and comfortable. There's no risking this kind of connection. Also, with the exception of the whole catastrophically in love thing, Harry feels the same. Louis just knows it. He also makes Harry feel alive. Young. Loved. It's his pleasure. So, Louis will deal with the extra feelings himself. For the rest, Louis just accepts. He learned that magic like this cannot be explained, only experienced.

While they pass towards the small, abandoned garden in front of Louis' house, Louis decides to share his triumph on making the perfect escape and saving their plans for the rest of the day. Louis realizes then, turning on his side to get a better look at Harry, that wide green eyes have followed Louis' every move cautiously since the piercing sound of his mother's calling. Now, they seem particularly fixated on Louis' hand, in the space where their fingers are tightly tangled. For no easily explainable reason, finding apprehension where he expected to find excitement makes Louis deeply irritated. Secretly, it makes him slightly apprehensive as well.

\-  Are you going to be looking this shitty the whole time? You in pain, mate?

Harry's eyebrows shoot up his hairline as he frees his hand and turns his whole body to Louis. He seems affronted by Louis' tone and while he makes no effort in hiding his exasperation, Harry still chooses to answer as diplomatically as the best world leaders probably should.

\- I simply believe it is polite to answer our parents when they ask us questions. She seemed worried. 

He enunciates every word slowly, like Louis is a stubborn child that does not understand the lesson he is being taught. Louis does not appreciate it in the slightest and narrows his eyes in a way he hopes will make Harry realize he is entering a dangerous zone.

\-  Is that what they taught you at your posh school for boys with good manners?

Harry takes his time considering his answer and takes a deep breath before, with eyes focused on Louis, drawling:

\- Actually, yes. Yes, it is.

Harry still sounds offended, but now also seems serious. Very serious. It is only then that Louis realizes that maybe he is not making a joke. Maybe he is, in fact, telling the truth. Louis' laugh comes out as brash as he wished it did. Oh, the perks of being loud, loud, loud.

\-  Oh, fuck! You actually went to one of those fancy boarding schools, right? Those shitty pretentious ones? Where they teach you the right way to pee, the correct way to… to fold your sheets? The proper way to fuck? 

Louis notices that Harry is - adorably, if he may say so himself - blushing and pouting simultaneously. That just won't do. Louis decides to change strategies.

\-  Stop pretending you aren't glad I didn’t answer her.

That, somehow, is what makes Harry smile. He smiles in disbelief; probably surprised at the brashiness, at the cockiness of Louis' tone, probably surprised at how perfectly well Louis knows him. Still, it is a smile. Louis counts it as a win. Deep down his heart murmurs dumbly: "it would destroy me to have you just a little".

\-  From now on, curly. I'm gonna teach you how to survive in the streets. All gangster and shit. Wanna learn how to be a bad boy, yeah?

Harry does not answer, simply stares at Louis with eyes shining and mouth apparently stuck in a lopsided-smile. He also does not move, Louis realises.

\-  Oh my god, you've got so much to learn. Come on, curly. Take me somewhere special. We don't have all the time in the world.

With that, the smile Louis knows Harry saves only for him appears. The king is smiling his Louis-smile before muttering, in a low but sure voice:

\- Yeah, we do.

❥

As they begin to leave Louis' front yard, Louis takes his time admiring the autumnal weather and, in the distance, he sees his favorite tree and the pile of fallen leaves it creates every year, strategically placed next to his bedroom window. In another life, he could be a spy whose specialty is escape. Undetectable. Harry doesn't really approve of Louis' method of getting out of the house, but that's probably because he's too scared to jump. Poor baby never makes the most out of those long legs of his. Silly. The autumn wind blows Louis' fringe out of his eyes as he turns back around and takes in the view in front of him.

The street Harry takes, the one Louis has not set foot on in such a long time, looks different than he remembers somehow. As they stroll through it, Louis wonders - although he is far too aware of his reasons - why he does not savor his mornings this particular way. His AM hours are mostly dedicated to unconsciousness, spent either in a marijuana haze or under bed sheets, dreaming of somewhere far away. Now, those untouchable fantasies, whose existence Louis still has trouble admitting to himself, seem so close he can almost taste it. In this windy and warm weather, in a street in the middle of nowhere, Louis feels like he has finally arrived. Where? He does not know.

Louis' eyes inspect his surroundings, as far as they can reach, only to confirm what he already knows: he and Harry are the only ones here. His mother probably chose - as much as poor people can in fact choose anything - such a remote part of town as an attempt to keep Louis' dad further away from his usual temptations. Obviously, addictions are way more tricky than that. As a result, Louis' childhood was dedicated to exhaustingly trying to keep the same blank, tedious scenario interesting. Alone, Louis had to keep creating ways to transform the rough, violent neighborhood into the perfect stage for his last superhero story; for the newest adventure of his courageous and lonely knight. There has never been a doubt, nor then nor now: Louis only had himself. Himself and his rich rich creativity, the only trait he genuinely appreciates. He may be kind of bratty, sure, a little stubborn and probably better described as an apocalypse rather than a boy, but his imagination has always been impeccable. He would not have made it so far without it.

Still, indifferent to Louis' power, there was always reality. Always unbeatable, always invincible. Ruthless. The real world, the most damaging villain to any story Louis could ever put together, used to crush his each and every dream. And, as Louis snaps back to reality, he is surprised to be unexpectedly faced with one of his most notorious childhood enemies. It is no wonder why he does not take this particular street anymore. Tall and proud stands the bar where Louis' father drank his livers away. Louis has its faded out colors and its crooked sign forever burned in the back of his eyelids. Could easily draw it to its minimal details after so much time spent staring at it angrily, urgently pleading for his father to pop up through the bent entrance door. Mini Louis learned, through his mother's words, that the bar was slowly killing his father. Louis would think of it as a greedy monster, a gradual killer that, not satisfied with its slow murderer, would spit out, at the end of the day, an angry, violent man, unrecognizable to Louis. The silly thought that the bar had been listening to his whole daydreaming monologue scares him for a second, as if it would follow Louis wherever he went, only to prove to him that it is still there. Still stronger than him, still invincible, still more deserving of his father's attention.

During his childhood, Louis determined that such a powerful enemy required Louis' most powerful weapon: his angry stare. With a scowl, Louis would spend hours glaring at the bar, trying to make it either disappear or throw up his father, whatever came first. Now, as if the last ten years have never existed, Louis feels tempted to do the same. He is sure that his angry eyes must have gotten pretty intense with age. Maybe now, the hideous building would finally explode. Louis has barely begun turning his head to the left, when Harry's voice calls him by his right.

\- Don't even look at it, Lou.

Louis was not planning on looking at Harry. Actually, the plan was disobeying Harry's advice altogether and taking his chances against the bar. He was pretty confident in his improved angry-stare abilities. It is the wind that changes everything, bringing a smell to Louis that he simply cannot ignore. He was already preparing himself for the smell of beer a couple of meters ahead, closer to the bar, added to the pungent smell of spilled alcohol, old cigar smoke and piss, the same classical foundation of every shitty pub. Instead, what he smells is magnificent. For a split of a second, it feels new, different from everything Louis has ever felt before, unique. Immediately after, he remembers how familiar it is; remembers how he has always known this smell, how it has followed Louis his whole life, always present in his favourite dreams. In his head, it received the label "Harry's smell" and Louis has never tried to describe it any further, knowing how pointless it would be. Louis spends more time than he cares to admit wishing he had the abilities of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, if only to eternalize such treasure. For Louis, Harry's smell is simple: it smells simply of love.

Turning his head slowly towards Harry's voice, Louis decides right then and there that he absolutely needs to write an ode to the wind, or poetries, or sonnets, if it is going to keep ruffling Harry's hair like that. Harry is looking straight ahead, with a serious expression, probably due to their growing proximity to the bar. For once, Louis is glad that Harry is not retributing his looks, is glad that his glances are one-sided and that Harry does not see Louis' expression of wonder while examining the boy's profile. Louis' eyes, helplessly sincere when faced with whatever kind of hurricane is Harry Styles, would give too much away. Harry looks like an out of place lion, on his way to conquer the world like it did not already belong to him. The wind keeps tangling Harry's brown mane, creating a messy frame for his masterpiece of face. Louis needs to take him to windy places more often or at least came up with a strategy to admire him without getting caught. Harry's smile is growing slowly, morphing itself into a debauched grin, but all Louis sees are curls, curls and curls.

\- I'm considering cutting it, you know?

Harry's smug tone makes Louis sure that he knows exactly where Louis' thoughts were, all tangled up in that mess of a hair. Louis decides he does not care. Morphing his expression from fondness to annoyance, Louis answers him with the exact amount of distaste that the absurd proposition requires.

\- Harold, that is simply unacceptable.

Harry simply laughs, unbothered, like he has not just made a deadly threat to Louis' mental health. He starts walking a couple of steps ahead and Louis suspects that the little swing on his hips is completely unnecessary, serving the only purpose of making Harry's hair move more. Harry turns his head slightly, coyly, making sure that Louis' eyes are still on him, like they would ever be anywhere else. Harry loves the attention, but is too shy to openly ask for it. From Louis, he will never need to ask. Considering all the range of addictions Louis had to face in life - his love for destruction, his father's alcoholism, his mother's obsession with a love she did not own -, Louis supposes that being addicted to Bambi legs does not seem so bad.

Harry's loud laugh, barking in the silence, snaps Louis out of his reverie. Louis quickly understands that the laugh - now, a giggle - is due to Harry almost tripping over his own feet. As Louis' smile begins to grow in realization, Harry's laugh starts again. He is such a dork, Louis thinks, laughing adorably, with silky curls bouncing on his shoulders. In the morning light, in an empty street, Louis realizes he feels happy. Harry is not a bad addiction at all.

\- I won't cut it, if you don't want me to.

Harry says, still smiling, and that is way better. Hope flashes into Louis' chest on the thought of getting to admire - or, maybe, if he is lucky, even touch - the most beautiful hair on the most beautiful boy. Louis is about to ironically thank Harry for being considered in such an important decision when Harry adds up:

- All you have to do is say that you like it long, like a lion's mane.

Louis' laugh gets as loud as Harry's. Still, he replies indignant:

\-  Shut up, you do look like a lion.

\- Yeah, I know you think that.

\- But not like the king of the forest type of thing, not the big, strong, scary ones. You're like... a lion cub!

\- Uhm, I see. And you're like a bear cub, you know, right? Boobear.

Louis almost squeals.

\- That's a forbidden word and you know it, Styles.

Harry's smile is slow and defiant.

\- Just used it.

\- Oh, is that right?

\- Yeah, I guess so... boobear.

- I'll tell you what's going to happen, curly: I'm gonna give you three seconds to start running. I know it will be hard with all your Bambi coordination and shit, but try not to fall, yeah? When I catch you, I'm gonna tickle you. Hard. Until you beg for my forgiveness.

Harry's eyes widen momentarily, but he strongly tries to keep his impassiveness. He changes his almost perfect straight face to one of disdain, raising one eyebrow.

\- I'm not ticklish.

\- One.

Harry lets out a laugh that can be better described as a desperate bark and starts running, as clumsy as ever.

Louis takes his time to start running, choosing to give Harry some advantage while simultaneously admiring him from a distance. In the morning light, Harry's mop of hair turns to a light brown shade, perfectly matching the whole view around them. Harry seems to perfectly match Louis' whole life. Remembering the lonely times, alone with his imagination, Louis thinks that Harry may be the piece that was always missing. His own perfect puzzle piece. In the same old street, Louis reevaluates: maybe this is a good place to be, a place that belongs only to him and Harry. As Harry turns around, with stars in his eyes, Louis, who never felt safe before, feels protected, secure, warm. Maybe this is what happiness feels like.

It is only when they turn right in a street Louis swears he has never seen before, Louis too invested in chasing Harry down, that Louis realizes he has not even seen the bar pass them by. It feels wonderful. Louis feels free. Through this new road, they go.

❥

Louis does not know how long it takes until they reach the chalet, all he knows is that he lost himself in a Harry haze throughout the way. Harry kept him entertained with stories about his childhood filled with really lame jokes - it does not matter if Harry calls them "the best of humour", they were simply horrible - and complained to Louis about a book he really wants - "need, Lou" \- to read but can never find. Harry presented his opinion on the most diverse topics, from antique literature to advancing technology, from the valentine days' industry to viable actions on climate change, always laying his political views on the table, unashamed. He also spent a long time narrating to Louis, with the utmost fondness, the last adventures of his disobedient cat, named Cat. Louis was enamoured. This talkative, opinionated Harry just adds another depth to the boy who already owns his heart. It's everything he has always known, everything he has always wanted, but it always feels new somehow. Still intriguing. Captivating.

Louis knows that Harry does not have this kind of space anywhere else; a space to simply expose his points of view, being able to talk about whatever topic he chooses to, without being interrupted. Harry is a shy, self-conscious boy. Louis is all ears.

\-  So, the bakery is going to be a thing, then. Are you excited?

\- Yeah, kind of. It's like a job, really. It was my dad's idea since... all the free time.

And, okay, they are going there, then.

\-  You do not have free time, Harold.

Louis knows pretty well about Harry's exhausting routine, filled with appointments and classes and events, no time to rest. The boy doesn't exactly spend his days chilling by his house.

\- Well, I'm not going to college, am I?

Harry takes a deep breath then and Louis decides to let the silence comfort him before making a comment. He could go to college. He really could. Harry speaks again before the silence or Louis can do anything about his mood.

\- I am not bitter.

Harry says it bitterly, with a bitter expression. Louis decides to let this one go.

\-  So, you're going to be a baker.

Harry rolls his eyes at the same time he lets out a small smile. It's slightly endearing.

\- It's an internship, Louis.

\-  Yeah, an internship to become a baker.

It's Louis' turn to roll his eyes. Harry doesn't complain. Good. Harry's learning.

They keep on walking as Louis begins to imagine Harry surrounded by bakery goods. He imagines Harry charming all the customers and actually learning how to bake, donuts and croissants and cakes, cheeks dirty with flour. Louis imagines Harry's mop of curls contained by a small hair net, curls escaping everywhere, and imagines Harry in a cute apron, which leads to imagining Harry in nothing but his cute apron and this is an extremely dangerous road for his thoughts to take, a road that should never be encouraged or even acknowledged. As a decent man, Louis will only allow himself to explore it later, respecting the perfect day he's sharing with Harry until he reaches the privacy of his own bedroom. See? Noble. Honorable. And desperately eager. Only then, alone in his bed, Louis will allow himself to get lost in a mess of flour and sugar and curls. Urgently deciding to stop his train of thought, Louis comments:

\-  Bread is so fucking good, man, I could probably eat an entire bakery in 20 minutes or less.

Harry has a cocky smile on his face when he answers, his voice a long-drawn-out murmur.

\- I know. I wish you would.

Little bitch.

\-  I'm not gonna respond to your insult, Harold, which means what I wanted to say was too mean and I decided to let you live.

Harry laughs out loud.

\- Well, thank you, your highness.

\-  Don't make me regret it, Bambi.

Harry has the decency to laugh a little quieter this time.

The more they walk, the warmer it gets and Louis feels on the verge of breaking a sweat, which he never does. Never. The autumn weather gets increasingly more comfortable to the point where Louis can pretend this is almost summer. Considering how cold his fingers always are - "little ice sticks" - and how his cheeks hurt to the point of turning pink with the cold wind, summer is like paradise to Louis. His favorite season, no doubt. In the middle of nowhere with Harry, they share an almost summer. It's perfect.

It takes Louis by surprise that his brain is really considering this place as the middle of nowhere. Louis looks around trying to spot exactly where they are, but the whole scenery is absolutely strange to him. They are still relatively close to Louis' home and still he's not sure he's ever been here before. Harry usually mocks Louis' abilities on remembering directions - "aren't bear cubs supposed to come with a good sense of direction? Doesn't it get dangerous for you and your other bear siblings in the woods?" \- so Louis refuses to ask. The only thing left to do is to return his attention back to Harry.

\-  We should rob the bakery.

Harry's eyes shine but he scolds his expression pretty well. Louis is impressed.

\- We're not gonna rob the bakery, Louis.

\-  Oh, right. What I meant was you should rob the bakery as I wait for you in my bed, resting, and then after you should give me all the profits of your looting.

Harry's smile is slow.

\-  You'll be waiting for me in bed, then?

Louis is sure he turns red. Purple. Harry doesn't comment.

\-  Shut up, you perv.

Harry laughs and Louis isn't back on earth yet when, after a small shared silence, Harry adds:

\- You know, you've got to be the only one who knows who I really am.

Louis can't really focus on anything after that.

\- I wanna thank y-

\-  It's my pleasure, curly. Really. Always.

And Louis can't really focus on anything but Harry after that.

So it is no wonder why Louis does not know how long it takes them to get to their destination, does not know which streets they took, who they crossed on the street. All Louis knows is that they arrived. Surrounded by tall trees, at the top of a small hill, stands a brown and red chalet; made out of wood, with wide windows, a chimney and an inviting door. It seems like a cozy and quiet place, charming. The sign reads "Whipped: books, coffee & music". Only Harry would bring him here. It is probably the place where wonderful, rare, quiet kids like him reunite. Maybe it is their headquarters.

Harry looks at Louis excitedly:

\- Shall we?

Vaguely, Louis wonders how is it possible that this beautiful, beautiful place exists so close to his house, at walking distance at least (since time has a thing for getting pretty relative and confusing when he's with Harry), and he has never seen it before. It feels surreal. He internally curses the fact that he will have to ask Harry for the directions later. His sense of direction is perfectly fine, thank you, his pride after that though may not be.

He pushes the door right after and Louis is hit with the amazing smell of coffee, pastries and new books, all combined. The place, even busy, remains quiet. There is a huge wood counter and a staircase leading to the second floor, where rows of bookshelves are lined up, organized by genres. From where Louis can see, there is still a third floor, but its display is hidden from view. The coffee bar is warm and elegant, of utmost coziness. It is exactly the place where Harry would feel at home and if it makes Harry feel good, Louis approves it.

While Louis examined the place, finding more details to add up to the quirkiness of the place, Harry got himself in line to order. The clerk gives them only one menu to choose from and they both share it. Louis' illusion that Harry understands that there is no way Louis will be eating anything is shattered when Harry starts ordering enough breakfast food for a batallion.

\- We'll have the breakfast special, two, please. With pancakes. Two mochas and french toast with strawberry jelly.

\-  I. Do. Not. Like. Jelly.

Louis intentionally enunciates it. Angrily. The only response he gets is a simple "You tell me stuff like I don't already know them" and no further explanation, no attempt to change their order. Louis is livid. Harry insists on paying for it all, leaving Louis with nothing else to do but wonder why on earth there are dollars on the small tip box instead of british pounds. He assumes it is made on purpose, aiming to enhance the place's eccentricity while still keeping it classy. As Harry gets his credit card, Louis catches the clerk eyeing Harry weirdly, even if only for a second. Louis expected this unconventional coffee to be the last place on earth where Harry would be judged. He does not have a clue about what the clerk may find even the slightest bit threatening about Harry, with his doe eyes and sweet smile. Maybe it is his long and somewhat tangled hair, paired with his light pink polished nails. Maybe she can see, as much as anyone else in the room can, the way Louis looks at Harry. As if Harry should be worshipped, as if Harry hung the moon and stars in the sky. Louis likes to think he looks at Harry exactly the way Harry deserves to be looked at; he is extraordinary, the best, exceptionally wonderful. Maybe the clerk is just a homophobe. Thankfully, Harry does not seem to notice; simply collects his receipt and turns around, immediately holding Louis' hand. Before Louis can overthink it, Harry starts to delicately pull Louis further into the room. Holding Harry's hand, Louis feels like he is sliding sunshine into his pocket.

As they infiltrate the chalet, Louis notices that the quirkness of the decor continues, exactly how he imagines Harry will decorate his own house in the future. Louis deeply hopes he gets a chance to see that for himself someday. The thought makes his stomach flutter. There are vinyl records decorating the walls; only the best, Zeppelin, The Clash, The Doors, The Smiths. To their left, a whole wall dedicated to a spray painted art of David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust form. Louis cannot stop trying to take it all in. As they reach the bottom of the staircase, Harry turns around.

\-  Wanna show you upstairs.

Harry says it with a look that probably translates to "wanna show you everything". Louis absolutely adores it. Louis looks behind himself quickly, suddenly curious to see if the clerk is still eyeing Harry weirdly. Harry must confuse it with hesitation, must believe that Louis is worried about their order being called without them being around, because he quickly says:

\- Oh, don't worry, Lou. They gave me this pager.

Harry shows him a small plastic box. It's black with some red dots.

\- It's going to start vibrating and lighting up when the food's ready. It's how they do around here, so that the place stays quiet. 

Oh.

\- Oh. Nice. Does it work upstairs?

\- Yeah, always does. And they have my number, anyway, but my phone's not really- Yeah, the pager always works just fine.

Louis feels a light, unjustifiable, ping of jealousy. He does not have Harry's cellphone number. Maybe the clerk was checking Harry out because she is interested. Louis can sympathize. He understands, probably better than anyone else in the world, the infinity of details, the constellation of freckles and all the smiles that make Harry splendidly attractive. Louis gets it. Harry, though, is still looking at him fixedly, trying to make sense of Louis' expression.

\- What's with the face?

\-  I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen.

First, Harry gapes at him. Then, he blushes to the tips of his ears, looking completely at loss for words. He eyes Louis curiously, like he is testing the veracity of the words. Whatever Harry finds makes him bite his lip slowly and lower his eyes to the floor, even shyer than before. Louis decides to save him.

\-  Don't fret it, curly. It's called a compliment, you know?

Harry furrows his eyebrows.

\- But you think I'm a lion cub.

\-  You know that I think you're so much more.

Harry raises his eyebrows and, after once again confirming Louis' sincerity, looks exasperated.

\- I can't believe you're gonna be like that here.

\-  What's the problem with being like that here?

\- There are too many people around.

The implications of that answer make Louis dizzy with want. Louis can not move. Harry takes his time looking at him intently, seeming to be attentively memorizing the exact shade of Louis' eyes, the exact placement of his freckles. Louis does nothing but stay still. Harry takes a deep breath, still sounding slightly annoyed, and heads for the staircase, pulling Louis behind him. Louis has no choice but to follow.

The mahogany staircase takes Louis to the most charming bookshop Louis has ever put foot on. Harry stops them at the second floor, a mezzanine, that receives more sunlight than the coffee bar downstairs. Its pine shelves must contain at least a thousand books. Louis' eyes track the genre labels in each bookcase - poetry, philosophy, romance, drama, adventure -, trying to guess which one Harry is going to attack first, which one will Louis help him to explore. When he turns his head, ready to make his guess, he finds Harry already looking at him. The words escape his mouth before he can stop them:

\-  Thank you for taking me to your special place, H.

Harry's eyes soften.

\- Oh no, Lou. Yeah, this place is special, sure, but it's not my special place. It's just the place we're going to eat.

Louis makes a disgusted face.

\- And before you start complaining, my plan is to distract you with some really nice books until the food's ready and then, you will have no choice but to eat it all up.

Louis' face does not change.

\- Unless you want me to force-feed it to you. I can get into that.

Harry's smile grows and he sounds so ridiculous. He says it like what Louis has is not alarming, like it is not a dangerous condition. He talks about it like Louis' terrible eating habits, if they can even be called that, are nothing but a private joke between them. And maybe now, in a charming coffee-book-music shop in the middle of nowhere, somehow it can be. Harry is smiling quietly, looking at him expectantly, like this is what he wanted Louis to get all along. Harry's eyes seem to hold all the reassurance Louis needs. Maybe it is indeed just a joke. It all feels like a story Louis keeps telling himself, "That's what the past is, Lou, just a story". A story he could stop, could refuse to tell, anytime he wanted. He has got to give it to Harry, he knows Louis better than anyone else.

\- Now, if you're over your little internal monologue, would you please help me find some Bukowski?

Louis absolutely hates this boy.

❥

They start the exploration off together. Louis, an enthusiastic admirer, observes as Harry goes straight for the biography's section of the library. Louis' eyes follow Harry's hands pulling different titles out of the book rack; follow Harry's smile creeping in while he takes in the provocative book covers; follow Harry's eyebrows furrowing while he tries to fit every book to its correct place in the correct order, ever so polite. Instinctively, Louis feels like he would really like to keep following Harry anywhere. Absurdly, he knows he will. Each title taken off the shelf gets a singular, special reaction from Harry. Churchill's biography gets a look of slight aversion and concern. "Into the Wild" puts a flash of desire for adventure onto those green eyes. Alan Turing's biography fills those kind green eyes with such a warm tenderness that Louis feels, once again, as if Harry's soul is the same age as the universe. Harry radiates the type of soothing energy that can only be achieved by cute grannies, in their little aprons, baking some muffins on a cozy Sunday morning. He radiates this aura while packing a supermodel body and a masterpiece of a face. The boy is a mystery in itself. Apparently, "Lou Reed: Transformer" is the selected one and Harry gives Louis a small smile before turning around and proceeding to the price checker.

Instead of following him, Louis decides to take an alternative route. He cannot remember the last time he had the chance to be in such a fancy bookshop, tempted with so many good options for the next book to read, so close to the touch. He just has to make the most out of it. Louis keeps walking through the halls, fascinated with the different titles his eyes catch and that he can easily recognize, until he finds himself in front of the drama bookcase. Perfect. That's exactly where he was planning to go. It can be considered cliché, sure, and he was aware that he wasn't nearly as cultured as Harry, but what can he say? Sappy romances are simply a guilty pleasure that Louis won't deny himself. After one pause for appreciation, he starts exploring. Just like the others, this one is a perfectly organized book rack: in each shelf, all books in perfect condition; all the titles in alphabetical order. It is only when Louis spots "To Kill a Mockingbird" that the flashbacks start. They can be better described as childhood dreams, seeing that there can't be a flashback of something that never existed. Something that never got the chance to exist. Louis can see himself, years younger, before his family lost all their savings during the crisis, before his father found his shelter in the bottom of an empty bottle; before being forcefully taken to the middle of nowhere, abandoning friends, dreams and futures. Louis has always been poor, sure, but he was smart. Really smart. Book smart. Not only creative, bright. "The unprivileged part does not matter, Louis", one of his teachers said. "You're going to get a scholarship". Louis was supposed to go to King's College, one of the best. Louis used to admire the college's library from afar and could barely contain his excitement when he understood that soon, if he just kept being a good student, he would get the chance to experience it all. All the books, all the knowledge, everything he could ever dream of, all of it in the palm of his hand. Until this day, when the sun is almost rising and he's been up through the whole lonely night, Louis likes to pretend it's time for him to get ready; to put on his private school uniform; comb his hair; have his healthy breakfast with his loving mom and present dad and head up to that massive, now unreachable, library. At this point in the sunrise, he usually takes another drag on the night's tenth cigarette and waits for sleep to take him. Louis already accepted that the building's exterior design will always be fresh in his memories and that he will always be wondering about all the secrets that the King's College library will never reveal, at least, not to him. Now, lost inside this charming bookstore, he almost feels like he got a second chance. He will have to remember to thank Harry later.

Louis moves away from the drama bookcase - enough with the flashbacks - and slows down on his exploring, walking lazily through halls, trying to memorize the name of the authors he had never heard about and mentally selecting interesting titles he would have read in another life. His expedition leads him to a different bookcase, not only in color but also in style, separated from the others. The peculiar bookcase is completely painted in rainbow colors and carries a flashy sign on its top shelf: "Donation Bookcase: Spreading Knowledge & Poetry. Take one, it's free! (leave one if you can)". Well, Louis really can't leave one, he has nothing on him right now. But, isn't that amazing? Rainbow things are always the best things! Realizing that this was the perfect bookshelf for him, especially considering that he won't have to ask Harry to pay for him, Louis wastes no time in diving in all. This is just great.

❥

Louis may admit that he might, maybe, have lost track of time. And also lost track of Harry. But it's ok. In compensation, Louis managed to, simultaneously, find, in the rainbow section, the book Harry was looking for - "Love is a dog from hell" -, a book for himself - Stephen King's "Misery" - and explore the philosophy section. And lose track of Harry, sure, but still he deeply appreciates his efficiency. It's the time to find the lion cub, then.

It takes about 10 minutes for Louis to discard the idea that Harry is hiding from him on the second floor. Harry is slow, slower than him, and also too tall to fit behind the bookcases. Besides, that chestnut mop of curls would give him away in an instant. Louis starts to feel just a little anxious in the bottom of his stomach and he tells himself that it's silly and that Harry would never leave him behind like that. Harry is a gentleman, for Christ's sake. But even though Louis knows this on a rational level, it still feels like going through abstinence, like if without Harry around, Louis doesn't feel real enough. The feeling should probably worry Louis, but it just makes him needier to see Harry right away, knowing that once he does, everything will be ok. It is that desire that makes Louis return to the mahogany staircase and climb the stairs to the third floor. Not that he should be expecting anything different, but the third floor - the music one - is also breathtaking. Just as the bookstore's style on the second floor, the use of wood is of an impeccable taste. The main differences are the lower shelves, allowing a better view - at least for someone as tall as Louis - of the whole floor; the vinyl discs on the walls and the vinyl record players sitting on a counter by the window. By that counter, also stands Harry, closed-eyed and headphones on, and Louis can feel himself visibly relaxing, releasing all the air his lungs were desperately holding on to. There he is, his little lion cub. Louis' heartbeat changes its rhythm, as if the mere sight of Harry is capable of slowing it down, bringing it back to the sync only the two of them share. Louis wonders if Harry also feels synced. If he knows that Louis just entered the room. If he knows that Louis can't keep his eyes off of him. Louis hopes he does.

As Louis starts to approach the counter, without taking his eyes off of Harry, obviously, he notices something spectacular. Spectacular! He doesn't know if Harry needed it for examining the books earlier, he thinks that is probably why this masterpiece is standing before him, but the reason is the least important thing at the moment. Harry is wearing glasses. Full on hipster glasses. Really nerdy glasses. Oh my God. Isn't that just the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen? It makes Louis change his mind. He was going to offer Harry the book as an apology gift for disappearing in the bookstore. Now, seeing that Harry has abandoned his backpack a couple of feet away and that Harry is peacefully keeping his eyes closed like the world belongs to him - which, yeah, it does -, Louis goes for a surprise. He grabs a pen that is just lying atop of a shelf, opens "Love is a dog from hell" on its first page and starts writing. "Dear bambi, here's the fucking book you've been looking for. Hope your life is even more poetic than every cultured shit written in these pages. Thank you for showing up today. Also, thank you for wearing those glasses, I don't think I will ever recover. Honestly, I will never be the same". Louis stops writing, afraid that he will give too much away and that Harry may feel overwhelmed in a bad way. There wouldn't be enough paper in London for Louis to write everything he wants to say to Harry. He hasn't decided if this is a bad thing or not. Now, he starts to feel ridiculous, paralised in the middle of a music store, staring at Harry, wondering about his platonic (yeah, right) feelings, while contemplating what should be just a friendly note on a gifted book. He decides to give himself just one more paragraph: "We're on the same wavelength. We're connected that way, even if I'm away from you. L xx". Yeah, this is good. This is okay. When he finishes, he closes the book without looking at it twice and just drops it - together with the book he got for himself - into Harry's bag and it's all good to go. Time to annoy Harold. God, it's been so long.

Louis can't help himself from staring at Harry just a couple of seconds longer before startling him. Harry is standing really close to the window and on the outside, the sunlight is really warm, highlighting all of his colours. The chestnut of his hair. The pink of his cheeks. The red of his mouth. Louis misses the green. Harry's features are so close, his expression so relaxed; Louis feels as if he's visiting a museum and somehow tricked the guards to get a chance to admire their most beautiful piece all by himself. It feels like a private exhibition. Louis would make the museum run out of tickets. Looking at Harry now, Louis realizes that he, maybe, doesn't want to look at anyone else in the same way for a very long time.

\- Aren't you just too beautiful for your own good? 

Instead of cutely startling like Louis expected him to, Harry, while still keeping his eyes closed, just lets a small smile spread out across his face, like the sun rising, slowly, brightly. It's more damaging to Louis' heart than a bullet.

\-  Hey, Lou.

He still enunciates his words slowly, like he isn't in a charming coffee-book-music shop in the middle of nowhere. Harry speaks like he just woke up and isn't alarmed to find Louis there with him. Like Louis is allowed to see him at his most vulnerable state. Louis wouldn't mind the pleasure nor the privilege.

\- How do you know it's me, love? I bet any guy; or girl, for that matter; in this place agrees with me on that one.... Just too beautiful.

Even if it feels like teasing, it is not teasing. Louis has no idea where he's getting all this courage to be so explicit about Harry's physical aspects like this. Probably it's just because Harry is keeping his eyes closed and it is making Louis feel brave. Or maybe it's just because Louis is a strong believer that Harry must feel beautiful every second of every day; beautiful and loved. Yeah, that's probably it. Louis is just the carrier of a consensual message from the world.

\-  Not interested \- Close-eyed Harry says with so much confidence that it feels like he already knows where this bantering is heading.

\- Oh yeah? But you haven't even seen them all. How do you know your soulmate is not just- Do you believe in soulmates? Someone who's your other half?

\-  Soulmates aren't just lovers, Louis \- Harry says impatiently, like this is a topic that was teached through kindergarten and Louis was such an impressively lazy child that he managed to miss all the lessons. Louis is absolutely sure Harry even rolled his eyes. Louis is so offended. Also, what does that even mean?

\- Of fucking course soulmates are lovers. That is a romantic word, Harold. It is not in a friendshippy kind of way. When it is about friends, you call it BFF, dumbass. Soulmate is about love.

Louis cannot explain why he feels all wrong with Harry rejecting his idea of soulmate. He feels misunderstood, something he has never felt when he is with Harry. Somehow, Harry defending that soulmates are about friendship translates to Louis' stupid heart that he and Harry are about friendship and… Ok. It doesn't matter. It is not about him and Harry, that's ok. Who even cares what Harry thinks? He will probably just end up marrying a super hot bikini model in the next 5 years. Dumb as fuck. Yeah, she can have his babies. All blond curls and shit. Yeah, super hot dumb blonde bikini model can be Harry's soulmate for all Louis cares.

Harry opens his eyes slowly, irritated, like this is a serious topic of conversation and he needs to make himself clear. Maybe for him, it is. Ok, maybe for Louis it is too.

\-  What I meant to say, Louis, is that soulmates aren't just lovers. They are the whole package. They are the friendship, they are the love. They are everything \- Harry puffs when he finishes his sentence. He stares at Louis for one second longer than necessary and closes his eyes again.

Oh, okay. That's better. Louis can start breathing in a normal rhythm again while Harry goes back to his music paradise, closing his eyes. Well, at least they agree on that. That is good. Harry's eyebrows are still slightly furrowed so Louis decides to go back to the previous conversation, just to cheer him up, fill up the silence. What is Harry even irritated about? Christ.

\- So, since we agree on that, who is to say your soulmate is not just hanging around here, somewhere really close?

\-  He is, but he's being an ass about it.

Louis' brain freezes. Harry on the other hand, seems way more relaxed, like he just won a game Louis wasn't aware they were playing. He also seems to be expecting some kind of reaction out of Louis and Louis gives all he can at the time, with a frozen brain and a boiling heart: jokes. Oh, Louis is nothing if not a professional at diversion.

\- Hey! Who taught you that language, young boy?

Harry does not seem disappointed, but also does not respond. They stay in a loaded silence for a couple of minutes until Harry, in a lower voice, breaks it.

\-  Was thinking about you, you know. That's how I knew it was you.

Louis stays in silence.

\-  When you arrived earlier.

\- So, whenever you think of me I show up? Is that it, curly? Am I that wrapped up around your finger?

Harry laughs for the first time in the last hour and something in Louis' chest untangles.

\-  Not exactly like that, no. But, ahm... I do have a theory.

\- Let's hear it, Bambi.

\-  I never told anyone, though I think I should tell you.

\- Getting curious over here \- Louis wouldn't normally rush Harry. Louis knows he needs his own time to formulate all his ideas correctly, but this time he just has to know.

\-  It's basically: if I miss him hard enough, he will show up.

Louis stays quiet for a while. He knows exactly what Harry means.

\- I think I really missed you today.

\-  Yes.

\- More than anytime before.

\-  Yes.

More silence. It feels like a big moment, an important one. Louis feels it in his bones, in his heart; the weight of what they are discussing. At times like these, more than any other moment, Louis feels like their hearts have known each other forever and their minds are just now catching up.

\- I will always show up for you.

\-  I know.

\- Always.

Harry doesn't answer. Instead, he opens his eyes slowly and takes off his headphones. Instead of putting them back onto the counter, he takes two steps into Louis' way. It seems stupid, but that is enough to make Louis eager from head to toe. As he approaches Louis, he murmurs really low:

\-  Can I? Wanna show you a song. Wanna dedicate it to you, actually.

With the smallest hint of a nod, Harry puts the headphones into Louis' ears. The whole ambience sound of the coffee-music-book shop is gone. Louis is immersed in complete silence, except for Harry's voice, really close, closer than it has ever been, whispering: "It's going to start soon". Softly, the instrumental of "Pale Blue Eyes" fills the empty space. Harry is close enough to hear the music escaping from one side of the headphone and when Lou Reed's voice makes its first appearance, Harry's hands sit - slowly but surely - on Louis' waist.

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_Sometimes I feel so sad_

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_But mostly, you just make me mad_

_Baby you just make me mad_

Louis is completely involved by the music, by Harry's arms, by Harry's smell. Irrationally, he thinks "big hands, I know you're the one". Harry holds all of Louis now, completely glued to his body and starts to slowly sway them; Louis has never had a better first dance.

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

\- You love it here. Why haven't you brought me here before?

Louis isn't bothered that Harry has not brought him to Whipped before. He is actually glad that he had the experience today, he wants to thank Harry in more ways than he can imagine and that right here is the problem. Louis only asked the question so he can give his brain something else to think about. Harry is standing too close, just too close; which is unacceptable. It's not only that Louis can feel the little curls bumping into the nape of his neck; nor it's the fact that all of Harry's torso is glued to his back. It's not only the smell; not the size difference. It's all of this combined, added up to the fact that Louis feels safe and he never feels safe. He loves the song; he worships the boy. He wants it too much, that's the problem. It's too dangerous, it's too much. He can never afford to lose Harry, he would go crazy. He feels like he might combust and delirious with desire, he whispers:

\- Small in your hands.

Harry's body stutters, like he was going to act on Louis' words and decided against it on the last second. Louis has yet to decide how he feels about Harry's resistance. Harry holds Louis tighter and, instead of answering Louis' previous question, he just gives a small, small kiss, a peck, on the nape of Louis' neck. Louis combusts.

_Thought of you as my mountaintop_

_Thought of you as my peak_

_Thought of you as everything_

_I've had, but couldn't keep_

_I've had, but couldn't keep_

Louis tries to get his breathing under control, but it seems pointless. Harry stays completely still until the moment he lays his head down onto Louis'. Harry puffs after he does, like he is tired; like this is a demanding activity that is consuming all his self-control. Well, good. And as for Louis, he never felt like this before, he feels like a supernova, he feels greedy, he wants Harry all for himself. He's not tired, not at all. He wants to drown in everything that is Harry and if there's a small chance that Harry may want him back… Louis can barely finish the idea without getting so giddy he could explode. Louis tries to turn around suddenly and Harry holds him, restricting his movements. What is this? He tries again, harder, and Harry's grip just gets even more intense. Louis can feel Harry's breathing in the back of his neck and it's getting stronger; it's really distracting. Louis tries to turn around on last time and Harry nearly bends him against the counter, trying to stop the movement. There's no one near the vinyl records and they are probably the only ones on the third floor. No one is watching their interaction, if that's how Harry wants to call it. Still, as if to apologize for the passion of the movement - he did almost bend Louis in half - Harry rights them almost immediately. The first thought Louis has after being put on the vertical again is that he will probably jack off to this until the day he dies. The second thought is that maybe he read this whole thing wrong. Maybe Harry made a mistake and now he does not know how to get out of it. Maybe that's why he is so strongly preventing Louis from turning around.

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

Before letting the cold that's beginning to grow in the bottom of his stomach consume all his body, preventing further rational thoughts, Louis has to try one last thing. Just one. Just to see how far can his imagination really go; maybe he even imagined the kiss. Wouldn't that be a disaster? Louis starts slowly, almost imperceptible, as if he's not even a little bit interested nor invested in their current position. Getting to the tip of his toes, Louis pushes his bottom backwards. Just a bit. Harry's reaction is immediate. He tightens his grip and leans forward. He starts to whisper at the base of Louis' ear. He sounds so worked up that Louis can't contain the shiver that runs through his whole body.

\- I know what you're doing. You're like a combined mean angel and a kind devil.

Louis smirks. He doesn't care, right now, about the real meaning behind this. Even if Harry doesn't want him in the same way that he wants Harry, at least Harry wants him in some way. That's way more than enough. Yeah. He will think about that later. Louis is about to start his successful movement again - he knew it would work, yay! - when suddenly there is such an unexpected sensation that he almost screeches, scaring Harry in the process and jumping closer to the counter, away from Harry. The headphones hit the floor at the same time he leans into the counter. What the fuck?

When he turns around, still unsure of what happened, waiting for an explanation, heart beating fast, he finds Harry staring at the pager, looking as pissed as Louis has ever seen him. His cheeks are pinker than usual and his hair is all messy, eyebrows all furrowed. He looks amazing. When Harry catches Louis looking at him, his eyes soften.

\- Hey, I'm... I'm sorry. Ahm... The food is ready. That's what you probably...Yeah, they are calling us, letting us know. So, the pager vibrated. Sorry for that. For... Well, all of that.

Harry turns really shy through the end of his sentence, like he is remembering his past actions as unacceptable and is deeply ashamed of them. His head starts to lower, looking more and more to his own feet. Louis can't stand it. He shouldn't push Harry's barriers. They are there for a reason. Harry is Louis' golden boy, his king, he never wants Harry to feel uncomfortable in his presence. Never. What was he even thinking? Harry is already turning around when Louis grabs his hand.

\- Curly, hey. That's okay. It was my fault, you know. It won't happen again, promise. 

Harry looks at him quizzically. Louis has no idea what he is thinking; they are not in sync right now and Louis hates it. Harry ends up giving him a sad smile.

\- Food time, Lou.

\- Hey, you know that just won't happen.

The rejection doesn't hurt as much as Louis thought it would. No, no. It hurts way more. He will cry about it during his Harry-free time. Now, all the efforts are directed to not making it awkward. If Louis doesn't fuck it up, Harry can still be his person. His special person. And go marry that dumb bikini girl. It's already way more than Louis deserves, anyway.

❥

When they get to the first floor, Harry, climbing down the stairs in front of Louis, turns around suddenly. He still looks sad, but now irritated, an angrier version of when he explained to Louis about his concept of soulmates. Louis is confused. Maybe he already fucked it all up. Thanks universe, it was an amazing ride.

\- Let me know when you're ready to pay attention to me. 

Harry's voice is so firm, not rude, but strict, that it interrupts Louis' mind flow. Now that he thinks about it, that was probably Harry's intention. As Louis begins to move his head slightly, to face Harry in the right way, he sees that the clerk from before, the one who is probably waiting for them to pick up their breakfast, starts to do the same; starts to stare at Harry.

\- What the fuck is she looking at? 

\- I don't care. 

Harry sounds impatient. Louis forgets about the clerk.

\- I am paying attention to you. 

\- I am going to get us our breakfast. Could you please pick a table? I would like to talk to you, if you wouldn't mind. 

He sounds so formal. So stiff. Louis hates it.

\- Why are you talking like you're typing an email to your boss? What is the fuck with that, Harold? Yeah, I'll pick the table. Yeah, we'll talk. Stop acting like you're still in your posh boy school. I'm not your posh boy friend. 

Harry gives a small smile.

\- No, you're not. 

With that, Harry turns around and heads for the counter, where the clerk was still fucking staring this whole time. She at least appears to be apologetic when Harry turns around. Louis wants to set her on fire. Instead, he heads up to the comfiest booth he can find, away from the coffee shop counter. He picks on his nails, trying to distract himself, pretending he isn't nervous about what Harry wants to say to him. It isn't possible to have a break up without having had a relationship first, right? Ha ha. So funny. Louis loves humor. He also loves flowers and puppies. He loves hanging out with Harry, yeah, but who knows, right? Don't we always need such-

\- I can hear you thinking from across the room. 

Harry brings a tray with enough food for an army. The breakfast special consists of fried eggs, fruit bowl, bacon, buttered toasts and sausages. Whipped must be the only place in the United Kingdom that does not serve mushrooms and pudding, thank God. Harry also ordered pancakes, mochas and strawberry jelly. Louis wants to kill him.

\- So you came to rescue me from my thought, oh brave knight? 

Harry has the indecency of rolling his eyes. Louis suspects Harry gets this habit from him. He will have to discipline Harry later. Ha ha. Here comes humor again.

\- I wanna talk to you about something uncomfortable. Actually, just tell you something uncomfortable. So I figured you might eat while I say it. 

\- You figured I might eat?! 

\- Yeah, so we can both be doing uncomfortable things at the same time. 

It is not fair the way Harry has ruined Louis' heart for anyone else. Completely unfair. Making a quick calorie math, Louis grabs the fruit bowls and, with a disgusted face, starts to suck on the bottom of a strawberry. Harry's eyes linger longer than necessary.

\- So? 

\- Do you not like the other fruits? 

\- I do not like any food, Harry. 

Harry furrows his brows.

\- That's not true and you know it. Do you prefer strawberries? 

Louis takes a deep breath.

\- Yes, Harry, I prefer strawberries. 

Harry nods determinedly and immediately presses down a red button on the underside of the pager. When a different clerk from before appears (a young bloke named John, according to his name tag), Harry merely points to the fruit bowl and then to the strawberry. Harry smiles politely at the bloke when he nods and Louis does nothing but watch Harry's actions. Five minutes later, the first clerk, the nosy one from before, appears with a tray. She avoids Louis' eyes, good for her, and settles the tray on their table. In it, there's a bowl filled only with strawberries. While Louis stares at the delicious redness of it all, he wonders how Harry can be real. Harry interrupts Louis' thoughts right after. He looks concentrated, like this is an important moment, and really, is there a moment with him that isn't special? While Louis tastes the sweetness of the strawberries, he lets himself be immersed in this new moment Harry has created for them.

\- That music upstairs. I wanted you to listen to it, because it reminds me of you. I didn't mean to upset you in any way. I just wanted to tell you some things, some quotes, some of my favorite quotes, that also remind me of you. Is that ok? 

Louis just nods. Almost half of the strawberry is gone by now.

\- Okay, so. Here we go. Yeah, ok. This one is from Kafka, you know him, right? It goes like "I mustn't look at you too much, or I won't be able to take my eyes off you at all". 

Harry is looking at him with intent and getting redder by the second. Again, Louis just nods. He has to make sure there is enough air going into his brain otherwise he will just pass out in the middle of the coffee shop, in front of the nosy clerk, and that just won't do. Harry takes his nod as a sign to continue.

\- This one is from Pablo Neruda, he wrote "but my words become stained with your love. You occupy everything, you occupy everything". 

Louis' mind is a constellation in explosion. He can feel himself gaping, but he simply cannot help himself. Harry just goes on as if this is an acceptable conversation to be having with Louis' fragile heart.

\- Ahm... And I thought it was a good idea to finish with Dickens: "you are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read". 

Harry looks at him with a bad-concealed expectation in his eyes.

\- Does it bother you... that I feel this way? 

\- NO! \- Louis almost chokes on strawberry - I mean, it does not bother me, Harry. No. 

Harry smiles his "Louis smile". It is almost perfect. There's just a little bit of self doubt that needs to go.

\- It's just... It felt like it bothered you. Before. Upstairs. I wouldn't blame you, I know that I have all those problems and that I'm not- 

\- Curly. Would you please look at me? 

Harry looks like a deer - ha, Bambi - caught in the headlights. He looks at Louis as if Louis held his whole world in his hands. Louis wonders if that is how he looks at Harry during these important moments.

\- You know, some days I don't want to live another hour. 

Harry immediately starts to shake his head at that.

\- But I'd live a million years with you, yeah? You're my favourite, favourite thing. 

Harry is sitting across the table completely still, like any movement could disrupt the place where they are going now. He doesn't understand yet that nothing can disturb them. But he will, soon. He will understand that they have each other and the rest is just noise. For now, Harry's eyes are fixated on Louis with so much attention and wonder that Louis feels warm everywhere. When he looks like this, all apprehensive and golden, he puts the sun to shame.

\- There's one quote from Kafka that I like too. "I usually solve problems by letting them devour me". And, don't get me wrong, you're not a problem. You never will be. But I will let you, okay? I will let you devour me. 

Harry's eyes have grown three times their size, his mouth is the reddest it has ever been and it seems like he isn't breathing. Good. Harry nods his head slowly.

\- So don't worry, ok, curly? I'm not going anywhere. 

Harry seems to be collecting all of his thoughts together. He takes a deep breath, swallows and states, with utmost sincerity:

\- I think I might be obsessed with you. 

Louis does not miss a bit:

\- Good, it's mutual. I'm glad we discussed it. 

It's only when it's time to go that Louis realizes that the fruit bowls are completely empty. Harry hasn't touched them, it can only be his own work and it feels surreal. Deep down in his mind, Louis thinks he should worry; thoughts about his body, his weight, his worth, come all rushing in. But he, somehow, in a way he never managed to do before, blocks those thoughts out. For now, the empty bowls just makes him want to laugh out loud; healthy and free.

❥

Saying goodbye to Whipped's cozy atmosphere, just makes Louis sure that he wants to come back soon. He needs to ask Harry for directions later, considering how distracted he was during the way here. Harry's fault. When they do get out of the coffee shop, the weather is even nicer than before and Louis is glad. It's really hard to get such a lovely day at this time of the year. He is just about to express his complex meteorological analysis to Harry when the boy, instead of going back into the road that they came from, starts to turn around, going to the back of the coffee shop. Louis, like a sunflower, can't help but to follow his sun.

\- Harry? I swear, if this is you attracting me to a desert place so you can finally murder me, I promise I will haunt you forever.

Louis can hear Harry's voice before he can see him, humming.

\- Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me... oh and I rush to the start....

When Louis rounds the corner, he sees Harry kneeling down next to a bike rack. He has a couple of keys and a padlock on his hand and Louis can see where this is going. Harry looks up at him from the ground, with a quiet smile on his lips, and Louis' crazy brain starts to take mental pictures of how his perfect marriage proposal would look like. Just for future reference, you know. Just in case. He finds out that his only criteria is to have a Harry Styles involved. Once again, as if he is an evil witch capable of reading all of Louis' thoughts, Harry's smile starts to slowly turn cocky. Louis must stop it right now.

\- Nice to know you think my murder is a joke, Harold.

\- I simply believe you would be a beautiful ghost.

\- A beautiful ghost? Oh my god, I would definitely haunt you!

Harry has a small smile dancing on his plush lips. He acts as if Louis is a distraction, preventing him from getting the work done, but he doesn't really mind.

\- All I hear is a promise of you following me wherever I go. Honestly, that is fine by me.

Louis would start mocking him again, but it feels like an opportunity to tell Harry something important, just to let him know.

\- You know that I don't need to be a ghost for that, right?

\- Uhm?

\- Wherever you are in the world, I swear I will find you.

\- What if-

\- I will find you again.

Louis enunciates it like he is a poet in the 18th century; like Harry's heart is the only treasure he will ever need and like his owner is a damsel in distress whose life Louis would die for. If it hits too close to home, that is Louis' problem and Louis' problem only. Right now he has to attend to his damsel. Harry pays attention to Louis' sentence, like he is absorbing it in. Then, without any apprehension, concludes:

\- Wouldn't go anywhere too far away from you, Lou.

Just then, Harry seems to have finally selected the right key, because the padlock finally unlocks. But, instead of a normal bike coming out of the rack, it's an abomination that pops up.

\- This is simply ridiculous.

Harry looks like he has been expecting this reaction out of Louis, which only serves to make him even more stubborn about this decision of not getting on this bike. Never.

\- The special place is not very near, Louis. You would just complain the whole way there.

\- A two seater bike, Harold? Really?

\- Especially after that amazing breakfast....

\- Oh, so many strawberries! I think I will taste them forever.

\- Now that you mention, you probably do taste like strawberry. Juicy, right? Naturally sweet. Unapologetic.

Louis knows what Harry is trying to do, he is not stupid. He also knows that he must be blushing to the tip of his ears. So, if Harry thinks that he can sweet talk Louis’ way into his bike... well, he's absolutely right.

\-  So, just let me take care of you for a while, yeah? You can focus on the landscape. It is really beautiful, I promise. We will go into the woods for.... maybe... an hour, if that is okay with you...

Harry is a king, inviting Louis into his castle; into his fortress. How could Louis even say no? Of course it is okay with him. He will even stop complaining about the bike - it is actually kind of nice, in a vintage, lonely boy way. Well, not so lonely, since it has two seats, but still, the thought remains. Louis is way too aware of Harry's power over him; too aware of the fact that he is incapable of naming one thing he would deny Harry. Instead of feeling weaker, though, he feels stronger.

\- There's nothing else I'd rather do, Harold my boy, than explore all the world with you.

And as Harry helps Louis climb onto the bike and starts pedaling, Louis feels like they are breaking the space and time barrier. He feels like they are in control of a spaceship, the vintage bike, heading to an universe that belongs only to them. It should seem lonely, but it seems absolutely perfect. The universe of the astronauts in love. Entering into the woods and wishing that the time would slow down, Louis knows that he won't struggle with the lack of gravity; Harry will keep him grounded.

❥

\- John.

\-  Jasmine!

The sunlight makes everything more intense and the warmth, in combination with the highlighted colors, create a unique feeling. The view goes beyond the dark green of the trees, beyond the multitude of colors from all the flowers everywhere; goes beyond the most beautiful blue sky. It's an amazing blend of it all. The view, here, in the middle of the woods with Harry, becomes a feeling. Louis can't see Harry's face right now, but he doesn't have to, to know that it looks just as beautiful as the spectacle around them.

Harry stopped once along the way, around ten minutes ago, at a small lookout. While Louis watched him climb out of the bike, Louis came to a very important conclusion. It has been deduced based on the perfect amount of evidence and it might as well just be considered a scientific fact from now on. The thing is, Harry is just like a rose. The most beautiful one. How could Louis have not seen it before? It's everywhere; in Harry's light pink lips, all plush; in the way he carries himself lightly, delicately. It's in the way that he seems to grow towards Louis, all eagerness, wanting Louis to see the world through his eyes; waiting to captivate Louis and be admired by him. Yeah, Louis is pretty sure about his new secret fact.

Turns out that the stop wasn't meant to admire Harry, which sucks, but actually meant for Louis to see the city, far away now that they are approaching the top of the hill. Everything is really beautiful. Not as much as Harry, sure, but still. Louis feels kind of bad that he can't, no matter how much he tries, recognize anything about the city from this far. Shit, maybe he needs to start wearing glasses again. He doesn't want Harry to think that he has no sense of direction, or no 3D perception of the city buildings or anything, so he doesn't say anything about the distant town. Instead, he focuses on the sound of the woods, of the birds passing by, of the trees dancing in the wind. Before he notices, it's time to go.

\-  James!

\- Jafar!

They have been riding - well, Harry has, at least, Louis prefers to bet more on his moral support abilities rather than on actual pedalling skills - through the woods for at least an hour. Louis thinks that must be about right. It's probably 1pm or something like it. Harry hasn't complained once about Louis’ lack of participation in their double-pedalling activity. Harry's such a sweetheart. They should be arriving into the special place soon, but Louis doesn't really mind the ride. Doesn't really mind the view nor the boy, to which Louis has firmly attached himself as soon as the first bumps on the road appeared. He is aware that he looks like a baby koala, strongly holding onto the back of a big lion. Of a lion cub, shit. He can't mix it up in front of Harry or the boy's ego will become unmanageable. It's already hard as it is; cocky bastard. Louis knows that Harry is the biggest fan of their height difference. Well, the second biggest. The first place belongs to Louis himself, not that he will never let Harry dream about that. So, he goes; a koala with its lion cub in the middle of the woods.

\- Julia.

\- Jacob.

They have been playing this game since the lookout. Pick a letter and exhaust all possible names starting with it. There have been five rounds. Harry has won all five. Louis is sure he is cheating, he just can't prove it right now.

- Jacqueline.

\- Ahm... ahm... Jade!

\- Jacques.

\- What the fuck, Harry? We're not in France! English names only; you lost.

- I did not lose, Louis. \- The way he enunciates Louis’ name, clearly pointing out its french roots, makes Louis want to jump out of the bike just to see Harry fall. But he is trying hard to be a polite boy to Harry throughout this little trip; also, causing any damage to that precious face is just too much of a risk. Still, he can tell that Harry is smiling. Cocky smiling. Louis hates it. - Besides, I do not remember hearing the names Jafar and Jasmine anywhere but fresh out of a Disney movie. And Jacob, right? Edward's best friend? So, if you would just admit defeat, it would be easier for the both of us.

Louis poutes.

\- I hate this game.

\- You chose it.

\- Whatever. Aren't you going to pick the next letter? Afraid, Styles?

Harry laughs like just the thought of being afraid of Louis is a joke in itself. Louis decides he is going to push him off of the hill. Fair's fair.

\- No, actually... we arrived.

After they ride through a thin trail that Louis suspects Harry made for himself years ago, the road begins to get steeper. They stop by a huge pine tree, with a slim but firm trunk. Harry takes a chain out of his bag and locks the bike to the tree.

\- On foot from now on, yeah?

Louis has no idea how can a place in the middle of the woods be this special to Harry. Besides that, Louis also has no idea where he is. If a wolf shows up and tries to chase him, he will probably just have to spend the rest of his life living like a Mogli, hiding in the woods, forever afraid. He would make a terrible Mogli. Also, Harry would probably try to domesticate the murderous wolf and it would become Harry's little puppy. Harry would be the perfect Mogli. Louis is disgusted. As they push up the hill, the pines tickle his arms and the trees start to slowly fall away and become sparse, giving way to the tall grass. There's a tender brush of the grass against their clothed legs and, in the afternoon breeze, all the trees sway and swish gently. Harry always turns around to check on Louis and, seeing that he is okay, smiles like the sun. It smells like earth and nature, birds singing and passing by over their heads. Louis feels warm and a little cold all at once. Harry gently grabs his hand and they trot up to the highest point, where one lone pine shoots up into the sky like an arrow. There, at the hill's highest point, with the whole world stretching out endlessly before them, there's a glade, a dell. In another moment, Louis would like to stay in complete silence, just staring straight ahead at the skyline. He imagines the most beautiful mornings in the world must happen here; he can see the way that the hills that surround the town curve around it, meeting together in a gradual, steep line. In the mornings, it would reveal a convex dip of sky, purple on the horizon and then a slow pink gradient would blend with the purple, rising up and flowing over onto the hills like a paint spill. There will be another time for mesmerized silence, luckily, a whole lot of other times; right now, he just needs to let Harry know that:

\- This is amazing, H.

\- Told you it was a special day. I was saving it for my special person.

When Louis turns around, he is taken by a feeling, by some sort of instinct that he simply cannot explain. There's something he needs to do. He needs to run. There's sunlight coming from everywhere; he feels happy, he feels free. He passes Harry by, running, laughing, in the search of something he knows it's there. He feels like he has done this a thousand times before, like it's a habit, an old joke between them. He finds what he was looking for exactly where he thought he would and it's lovelier than he could have ever imagined. At the end of the glade, further from the city view, there's a hollow. Around it, there are more kinds of flowers that Louis has ever seen in his life. Daisies and gardenias. Lilies and orchids on the trees. Roses, tulips and sunflowers. Due to the wind, the hollow is filled with all the flower's petals, looking like the most beautiful and the most colorful mattress. A very inviting mattress, indeed. Louis can feel Harry following him, in his own rhythm, obviously, but he does not hesitate. He feels like Harry already knows what he is going to do, he feels like Harry has seen him do this different times before. They are in sync. Louis simply cannot contain himself. He jumps into the hollow and the fall is a well-cushioned one, comfortable, and it smells really good. Louis feels like a snow angel, shaping petals instead of ice. He can hear Harry approaching and so he decides to stop moving and just enjoys the moment, breathes it all in. And here, lying in a mattress made out of flowers, close-eyed, feeling the sunlight hitting his whole body, Louis believes he has found his peace.

\- Never have I seen anyone look more beautiful or more at home amongst a thousand flowers.

Louis opens his eyes slowly. He feels warm from head to toe, only due to the feeling that Harry is watching him.

\- Like what you see, Bambi?

\- You look like a prince.

If Louis blushes, he will deny it for the rest of his life.

\- You said before that I would never survive in the wild. Look at me now. Don't I look like Mogli?

\- You look like an angel.

Okay, now Louis definitely blushes. What even is this kid? Jesus.

Harry is still standing close to the hollow, muscles all relaxed, happy tilt of a smile on his mouth. He looks confident and relaxed, like bringing Louis here is the only thing that will restore the order to his universe. Harry looks delighted. Louis doesn't think he has seen him more at home, more at his element anywhere else but here. Not even at Whipped. It's clear that this is the special place. When Louis looks at Harry again, he's brighter than the sun, shining his starry eyes at Louis, like he's memorising the whole scene. It's understandable. Louis is doing the exact same thing.

\- I made us a bed.

Harry's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

\- Oh, you made us a bed.

\- Yeah, a flower bed.

\- You made us a flower bed.

\- Yeah... Aren't you going to try it?

Harry gives Louis a sad smile and starts to walk backwards, away from the hollow.

\- Nah. I'm sorry, I'm not into these Mogli things you like.

Louis should see it coming, but he didn't. When Harry falls, centimeters away from where Louis lies, half of the petals fly out in the air and they are surrounded by a flower storm. It's raining petals and Harry is laughing.

When they both lie down, one next to the other, it's Harry's voice that breaks the silence, melodic like a symphony.

\- This is where I wanted to take you first. When I thought about us, you know... 

Harry swallows and blows air out of his nose. Louis doesn't rush him. They do have all the time in the world.

\- I'm aware that I know you since forever, it's just… Like... I think I would have liked to meet you here.

\- Oh yeah?

\- Is this weird?

\- Seems perfectly fine to me, kid.

\- Oh, okay. Good.

A couple of moments of silence fall between them where there's just them and the smell of the flowers; just them and the melody of the birds; just them; just them. Louis has never been happier.

\- So, I brought us a couple of things in my bag and-

\- Excuse me? 

Harry's glance to Louis falls into the "irritated-confused" category.

\- I brought us some cereal-

\- My mom taught me not to talk to strangers, sir.

\- Strangers...?

- Well, obviously. Never seen you before, have I?

Harry is looking at Louis like he's speaking in greek. Louis takes a deep breath.

- But this seems like a really good place to meet someone for the first time, doesn't it?

Louis gets a cheeky smile on his lips when he extends Harry his hand, aiming for a handshake. Harry grabs it with a kind smile on his face.

\- Louis Tomlinson, nice to meet you.

\- Harry Styles.

\- Nice to meet you, man, you're all my heart ever talks about.

❥

After they get out of the flower hollow, they approach one specific part of the glade where there are a couple of stumps the perfect height for seating and admiring the view. They seem to have been put there on purpose and Louis wonders if he underestimated the amount of time that Harry spends here. It's all very calm and peaceful. Harry is happy. They sit on stumps right in front of each other and, to Louis' right, a family of butterflies seems to evaluate whether he deserves to be here. Only him, not Harry. Harry is already part of it all.

\- So, this is my special place.

\- Amazing, Bambi. How did you find it?

- Actually... I kind of stole it.

Stole it. Can Harry even get more interesting; more charming? Louis briefly wonders if the amount of fascination he has for his little thief will ever be enough. For a second, Louis feels proud of himself because Harry's all his to explore; the other people have no clue what they are missing. In his next thought, Louis feels sorry for the world; for never getting to see Harry like this; for never getting to see Harry. A Harry-less life would be, for Louis, a wasted one.

When Harry starts speaking, he does so slowly, with reverence. Louis never wants to take his eyes off of him.

\- It was my uncle's. Chuck. He used to come here in the 70's, when he was around our age... Trying to escape my grandparent. Trying to escape this city, in my opinion. Everyone was... really unkind. So he came here to hide and have fun, I guess. At least that's what he told me. But yeah, he's not around anymore, and he gave it to me. It's my hiding place now.

Harry goes on about how the glare - "We called it the Refuge" \- was a secret between him and his uncle and how Chuck only showed it to Harry. Harry says he never brought anyone else here. Louis is speechless and simply cannot relate. No one ever made him a refuge; he never had a secret place, he never had no one. Louis can barely remember how everything was before Harry showed up. So, he tries to let Harry know that he is listening by commenting on the only topic he knows how.

\- Oh, that part about him not being around anymore... I get that. My dad fucked off too, a couple years ago. At least your uncle left you something amazing, dad won't even help mom with the bills.

Harry, whose eyes were alternating between the skyline and Louis, turns his head quickly; eyes larger than usual, their color matching all the grass around them.

\- Oh no... Chuck didn't. Well, cancer... Yeah.

Louis is about to start apologizing, having completely misunderstood Harry's whole relationship with his uncle, when Harry continues his story quickly; apparently trying to redeem Chuck's memory, feeling guilty for ever creating a bad image of Chuck for anyone, ever. Shit. Harry is shaking his head when he starts again.

- He was honestly such a nice guy. And he didn't have it easy, not with him being the way he was.

Harry's silence is loaded, like he is considering carefully his next words.

\- My mom tries to hide her homophobia, I know she does, but my grandad didn't. He absolutely hates gays. Still does, to this day. So Chuck was always, like, getting into trouble and having to get away from the house for a long time. He had this portable radio... I have it now, it's in my room. I'll show you sometime! It's like a relic!

Harry speaks with proud eyes about the radio and Louis wants nothing more than to hug him. Harry is such an amazing person. So kind. So pure. Louis loves him more than his own skin.

\- And he took it everywhere! Especially here! He used to lay here, listening to Bowie and Iggy Pop. He listened to The Smiths, The Cure, all of them.

Harry is smiling so bright. Louis wants to kiss him.

\- In 1972, he was obsessed with Harvey Milk. It was like a popstar to him, but like a popstar defending human rights and treating people with kindness. A popstar defending something worthy, you know what I mean.

\- Yeah, Harold. I too am a slut for equal rights.

Harry laughs loud. It's the best sound of the world.

\- He listened to Harvey being elected right here!

\- Right here?!

What? Louis can't contain his excitement and he's pretty sure his eyes must be the size of the moon. Don't mind him, every gay kid knows what Harvey Milk represented back in the day. Louis is fascinated.

\- Right here, Lou.

Harry says it with finality and a proud shake of his head. Louis has never heard Harry talk so long uninterrupted about the same topic. He isn't one for loquacity, not like Louis is. Harry prefers to use less words and express more meaning, Louis gets it. Harry is wise. It's perfect either way. But now, seeing this happy, excited, can't-stop-talking Harry, Louis knows that Chuck must have been a person worth knowing. The only person Louis would speak about with so much respect and enthusiasm is the one seated right in front of him. In the future, Louis will have to make sure that Harry knows that Chuck is proud of him, proud of all that he is. Silently, Louis grieves the lost chance of meeting Chuck. But, for now, Harry awaits.

Louis stands up.

\- Holy fuck! You took me to a fucking monument of gay history, Styles! I feel like I should pull out my phone and play us some Britney!

Harry's laughing, what else matters?

\- You wouldn't dare. It's a sacred place, Lou.

Louis narrows his eyes, playfully.

\- Are you really implying that queen Britney is not sacred? That wasn't very gay rights of you, Styles.

Harry stands up, still laughing and now, shaking his head, like he cannot believe the amount of nonsense that is coming out of Louis' mouth. Oh, he is in for a long ride.

\- I mean it, what kind of gay are you?

Suddenly, Harry stops and brings his gaze back to Louis. Harry's eyes grow, like he's slightly alarmed that Louis said a thing like that so blatantly loud and unapologetic; like it's nothing wrong, like it's not something that should be hidden. Maybe Harry was just thinking about his uncle's struggles and it's too soon to talk about the topic with so much carelessness, but Louis tries his best to convey, through his eyes, how completely okay that is. How, honestly, more than okay that is.

Louis must be able to transmit to Harry at least some kind of reassurance, because when Harry's answer comes, it is nothing like what Louis was expecting.

\- Only Beyoncé is sacred, Lou. Maybe some Lady Gaga...

Harry says it and smiles big right after, like he just passed a test. Like he just allowed himself to be as free as Louis. And, here, living in Harry's world, Louis does indeed feel free. It is the best feeling.

\- Ooooh, what was that, my little cultured indie boy?

Harry has been approaching Louis for the last minutes, slowly, deliberately, and Louis will hate himself in the future for not noticing the surprise attack.

\- Only reads Bukowski but loves yourself some Single Ladies? Some Bad Romance?

\- Only single boys. And good romances.

Harry grabs Louis out of nowhere, trying to tickle him. Louis screeches so loud even he is ashamed. He tries to run and falls, which only increases Harry's laughter. It's terrible. Louis will kill him as soon as he gets the chance. Didn't no one teach this kid that we don't laugh when people fall anymore? If someone laughs, it's bullying. We just stay quiet and mind our own business, it's common courtesy. Why is Harry so impolite, God? Harry, still laughing, mind you, captures Louis while he is still helpless from his fall. It's barbaric. Harry simply raises Louis from the ground, holding him from his waist, and starts to take Louis wherever he wants. It's the absolute worst thing that has ever happened to Louis. Louis will dedicate his life to escape this giant man's arms. It's only during one of Louis' successful attempts at trying to run, when he finally manages to escape what Harry's been calling the "Bunny Trap", for Christ's sake, someone needs to stop him, that he gets the joke.

\- Oh my fucking god!

Is there any reason to fight with such a dorky kid? He will never make a good joke in his life, poor thing. Louis might as well let him believe that he can capture Louis. With that, Louis lets - yeah, that's right, he lets - himself be captured and toppled to the ground. He happens to fall on top of Harry's backpack, which seems like a comfortable enough pillow. Harry falls right next to him, chest falling and rising from the chase and from his laughs, that still haven't stopped. Louis considers that Harry's chest would probably be an even better pillow than the bag, but Bambi does not deserve Louis' love if he's going to keep laughing at Louis' screech like that. Louis was scared, ok? The bravest animals scream to scare away their predators, Louis is sure of it. It happens with the best.

Harry's laugh starts to slowly die down. The silence is good, too, when combined with Harry's smell like this. Louis can perfectly feel when Harry starts to get closer, cuddling up to Louis. Louis can feel all of Harry's body behind him. All of Harry's nice little body. Life's a paradise and Louis is the paradise's master. Louis waits until Harry has reached the most comfortable snuggle position, spooning Louis perfectly.

\- Don't want you here.

- I'm sorry, Lou, I shouldn't have laughed when you fell.

He laughs at the end of his sentence and Louis wants to punch him.

- I should have taken better care of you. I know. Beautiful things are fragile.

\- I. Am. Not. Fragile. Also, yes. I've mistaken you for a posh boy, but I was wrong. You are a bad-mannered, disrespectful, rude and inelegant lion cub.

Harry laughs quietly, softly, only in his throat. Louis can feel the vibration everywhere. It's pleasant. Really really pleasant. The grass is comfy, the day is warm and he is completely embraced by Harry's arms. Louis can't even remember how early he woke up today; he has all the reasons in the world to feel sleepy.

- So how can I make it up to you, my highness?

\- Don't let any wolf try to eat me while I sleep.

- For you, literally anything.

\- Also, no more tickles.

\- Sorry, can't do that.

Louis' laugh escapes him, way louder than he expected, overflowing with love.

\- You're so full of shit.

Louis can tell that Harry is getting sleepier by the way he's breathing more evenly with arms more relaxed around Louis. It all feels like a dream and, for a second, Louis is scared that falling asleep will lead to an opposite effect, making him end up in a Harry-less life, far away from this private universe made out of love that they built. Feeling his eyes heavy, Louis considers that, if that is the case, if he wakes up alone and far away from here, he's still safe. He will always find his way back to Harry. "If I miss him hard enough". Always. Harry's voice sounds huskier than usual, rough, when he breaks the silence, as if he was already sleeping, but just needed to leave Louis a little message before being taken by his dreams.

\- You remind me of all the things I forgot I already knew.

Louis also has something to say, then.

\- Harry.

- Uhm?

\- I read something once. Somewhere. Wanna say it to you, yeah?

- Uhum.

Before Louis allows himself to get insecure, he reminds himself that Harry is partially asleep and probably won't even remember this when they wake up from this nap. Yeah, it's all good. He just wants to spoil Harry a bit, yeah, with all the thoughts he carries around in his heart about the boy. It's all good.

\- It says: "Life was but a sad dream; and I was but a sad breath; but you're something like sand when sunlight hits the sea". Reminded me of you. Of us, actually.

Harry holds him stronger, tighter, and for the second time, gives Louis a kiss at the nape of his neck.

\- Shh, baby, I'm yours, you're mine.

That is how they fall asleep. In a warm afternoon, in the middle of the woods. A secret place, where only birds, butterflies and lovers are allowed. And if Louis starts to hum into the silence, really quietly, the melody of I Will Survive, it's just because he needs to hear Harry's laugh one last time.

❥

Louis opens his eyes slowly, breathing in the fresh air and basking in the warm afternoon sun. He is still on his side, but Harry's bag - better known as Louis' pillow for the last half an hour - isn't where he left it and, as far as Louis can tell, has been replaced by a rolled up sweater. A rolled up dark orange sweater. It obviously belongs to Harry, not only it feels bigger and softer than all of what Louis got in his closet, it also smells strongly of its owner. The smell that Louis recognizes from all of his happy memories. Louis can't remember the last time he woke up in such pleasant circumstances.

Still in a slow pace, Louis starts searching for Harry. He feels like he can't help it; like it is a simple natural response of his body to consciousness. I am awake, ok, now where is Harry? Louis is always going to look for that face, he has already accepted his fate. Turns out, Louis doesn't have to try hard. Harry sits below a big oak, staring straight at Louis with a small smile on his face. There's an aura of melancholy surrounding him. He smiles like he's a model from a renaissance painting about heartbreak. People write songs about sadness as painfully beautiful as this one. He is glowing in the sunlight, it is the first thing that Louis notices. The second thing is the smile that doesn't sit quite right on his face. The smile seems like it is just a temporary reaction, brief, from observing Louis waking up. If Louis could observe him without getting caught, he is sure the smile wouldn't last. Would probably disappear as fast as it came into sight, existing only in Louis' memory like a relic. In this light, in the middle of the woods, Harry looks like a sad angel.

As if Harry can feel Louis overthinking, he grabs Louis' attention with an unspoken signal between them, using the connection that only the two of them have. In sync. Harry's eyes guide Louis' to a couple of objects, all lined up in a tree's fallen truck that, for what Louis can see, Harry's been using as a makeshift table. Well, that is new. Louis stretches and stands up. The objects, Louis can tell now, as he starts to approach Harry, are a couple of granola bars, two clementines and two water bottles. Healthy snacks. Healthy snacks that Harry bought, brought all the way up here and presented as if they were a fancy lunch, reserved only for the two of them. Louis' mind repeats, dumbly, madly, the echo of Louis' heart: "I will never forget you ".

Louis' eyes slowly turn to Harry, giving themselves time to prepare for being again assaulted by such beauty. Instead of the calm, sad, boy from before, they find Harry almost fidgety, clearly anxious. He is acting like he does when he needs reassurance, when he needs Louis. Louis sustains Harry's eye contact for a second longer before opening his arms. This seems to be all the invitation Harry was waiting for. In less than a second, Harry stands up and jumps into Louis' spread arms. It's a bear hug. Louis knows how much Harry needs it and there's nowhere else he'd rather be. There was a show, when Louis was a little boy, about one guy and his secret magical watch. Since then, Louis has always wondered how dangerous it would be if he could control time. He always thought he would mess everything up: he would cheat on exams; he would steal fancy food and attend concerts which tickets he would never be able to buy. Louis thought he would cause chaos. But now, squeezed by Harry's strong arms, he knows that if there was a moment in which he would freeze the time, this one would be it. In an alternative universe, Louis would be forever surrounded by Harry's smell, by Harry's arms, by Harry. Louis envies that universe's Louis. In this universe, though, Louis knows that he needs to let Harry go. Louis' voice is sleepy, still filled with incomplete dreams, when he whispers in Harry's ear:

\- So it looks like you made me a banquet. A proper feast are we having, yeah? 

Harry's laugh is slow and satisfied. Only a purr.

\- I like it, Styles, wine me, dine me and sixty nine me. 

There's no laughter this time, but Harry does hold Louis tighter before letting go. Okay, Louis gets it. Not in a good mood. Immediately, Harry turns around, as if he could hear Louis complaining about his mood, and grabs Louis' hand. Then, Harry proceeds to guide Louis into two makeshift stools that are conveniently standing beside the makeshift table. Louis starts to wonder how much time has Harry spent preparing this whole furniture while he was asleep.

Later, at night, when he is alone, Louis will wonder why he attacked the clementines. He ate not only one, but both. All the clementines that Harry brought. Maybe it was shame: Louis didn't want to ruin a special moment for Harry. Maybe it was because the sad smile Harry gave him before looked like it would taste like clementines and Louis was craving it. Maybe it was just hunger. The point is that, sitting in a makeshift stool in the middle of the woods and looking at Harry, Louis forgot, for the first time in his life about his eating disorder.

Before starting what would be his most nutritious lunch for the past years, he thought it was fair to mention, once again, how wonderful it all was; even if it was just to give Harry another second-long smile.

\- I feel like you should make a speech before we start, curly. 

Harry lets out a bitter laugh. Self-deprecating. It wasn't exactly what Louis was expecting. Louis forgot: bad mood, bad mood.

\- I'll probably have to, you know? This weekend. 

\- That's this weekend already? Shit. 

Harry is talking about the engagement party of his older sister, Gemma. The second one. She plans to throw one party a month until the wedding date. It's going to be a fancy occasion, extravagant venue and cocktails, where Harry is expected to give a speech about the happy couple. Not that Harry mentioned, Louis just knows.

Harry chews hard on his granola bar; his eyebrows are furrowed and he's got an angry look on his eyes. He takes a deep breath before adding:

- She doesn't even love him, so what's the point? 

Louis knows that Harry isn't really in the mood for jokes right now, but the last thing Harry needs is a serious conversation. He will just have to make do with Louis' humor, which, come on, it is simply the best humour in the whole United Kingdom. Smart jokes, quick ironies; yeah, Harry will be fine.

\- I would get married solely for the dress and the attention. 

Harry laughs through his nose and looks at Louis with, simultaneously, wonder and reprimand in his eyes; like he is offended that Louis is making jokes in a time like this.

\- You don't even care about fancy clothes. 

\- Yeah, that's probably true. If I could, I would wear nothing but underwear and a crown all day. 

Harry eyes him like he is too tempting to be dealt with right now; like Louis is testing his patience with every sentence. Still, he answers.

\- It would be a daydream. 

They finish their "meal" in silence. Louis has never felt fuller than he does right now and he is about to let Harry know when Harry suddenly lays back into the grass, falling off the makeshift stool, closing his eyes and letting out a puff. A loud puff. Almost a small roar. Harry looks like a stressed lion that is about to be caged.

\- So is it time to go already? 

\- Unfortunately. 

Harry does not seem surprised that Louis knows about his appointment. Harry only seems stressed. Stressed and sad.

\- We'll come back here, yeah? 

It sounds a lot like "You're not gonna disappear after today, yeah?".

\- Whenever you want, Bambi. 

The trail on the way back takes way less time than Louis wishes it did, sadly. Through the whole way, Louis simply attaches himself to Harry's back and lets the wind pass them by. Before he knows it, they are passing by the Whipped. Louis, already feeling the effects of the Harry-abstinence that is to come, simply holds Harry even closer. Just for a second. Just one for the road. Then, as they approach the Whipped, Louis tells Harry that he can take it from here. Harry seems entirely displeased with the idea.

\- No. 

\- Harold, please. 

\- Then describe to me how you're gonna get home. 

\- Harold, I'm older than you! 

\- I don't care. 

\- I've lived here since forever, you arse! 

\- I don't care. 

\- Tosser. You're gonna be late! 

\- Well, I might as well skip it. 

\- Harry! 

He's being stubborn and aggressive in a way he only gets before appointments like this. He gets rude with anticipation. They got off the bike and are now standing in Whipped's parking lot, waiting for Harry to finish his little tantrum.

\- I'm gonna take a right then take the second turning on the left, okay? Is that good for you, you twat? Then there's that fucking bar and you will just have to take my word for it that I can get home from there. 

Harry nods determined, looking at the ground. A caged lion. Louis feels guilty.

\- You gotta relax, Bambi. There's a french poem that said that by the time we learn to live, it's already too late. 

Harry's looking at Louis like he is the only source of light in the darkness. A candle shining with hope. A lighthouse. A star. Harry is looking at Louis like Louis is his north star, guiding him back to the earth. Louis's eyes are the only color in the universe and Louis' voice is the only sound worth listening to.

\- I know it's a bit of a sad quote, but reminded me of your eyes. 

Harry's eyes just grow larger.

\- I know how it is and I know you don't wanna talk about it and that's fine. Just want you to know that you deserve to be loved, curly, without having to hide the parts of yourself that you think are unlovable. 

Louis says it all in one breath. He knows he is right, it doesn't matter if he may have given a little too much away or exposed himself a little too much. That's completely okay. Honesty, yeah, such a good virtue. Only brave and noble men are honest. Louis is such a brave man. Such a noble man. Harry should be proud. Instead, Harry stays in silence, contemplating. Louis is not nervous at all. Harry keeps gazing at him for a couple of moments before he smiles, slowly.

\- Thanks, Lou. I'll see you later. 

Harry's hug is delicate this time; nothing like the bear hug from before. It's less urgent, more inviting and secretive. The weight of the lion cage is still there, weighting somewhere in Harry's heart. Louis smiles quietly, thinking to himself that Harry is the king and the lionheart. But even with the sadness, the hug is provocative; like Harry learned all that he needed to know from Louis' little speech from before and now he is ready. Ready for what, Louis does not know. He kisses Louis on the cheek. Once. It's magical. And as Harry begins to climb on the bike again, Louis can't help himself to scream:

\- Send me nudes when you get home so I know you're safe. 

Harry laughs, loud, and starts to pedal. Louis' eyes follow him until he disappears out of sight.

Now, alone, Louis has no idea where he should go. He almost can't believe that he managed to trick Harry with the false directions. Right then take the second turning on the left? How could Harry even fall for that? Deciding to start his journey home, Louis starts to walk away from the Whipped and closer to what he believes to be the right way. He almost reaches 100 meters before it starts to rain. Heavily. As if Louis wasn't cold already. Such a lucky boy. Louis quickly pulls up his hoodie and starts to run; he is already completely drenched and can barely see a palm in front of him. Isn't this excellent? Still running, Louis turns whenever he thinks he should, left and right, with the noise of the water in his soaked socks following him all the way. Louis hates soaked socks. Feeling his humor getting increasingly bad, Louis tries to summon up positive thoughts and the only idea his mind can come up with is that for lonely people, the rain is a chance to be touched.

Not even 20 minutes later, Louis is exhausted. Sweaty. Heaving. He stops running and pulls the hoodie off of his eyes, silently praying that he has at least a minimal idea of where he is. For Louis' surprise, he is right at the beginning of his street, his house just a couple of meters ahead. He thinks about Harry and how he wishes Harry could hear him say: see, Harold? Check out my fucking GPS system, baby. Who's the clueless one now? And thinking about Harry does give Louis a temporary happiness, always will, but it is only temporary. When the happiness ends, and it passes by in a blink of an eye, all it leaves behind is an empty space in the shape of a tangled-mane lion cub.

Louis, trembling with cold, approaches his house, climbing up the stairs to the front door. Its whole facade seems pretty graceless without Harry to complete the picture. It all seems to be in black and white; colorless; lifeless. Louis wonders briefly how dangerous it is that he feels the most alive when he is with Harry. Right after, he wonders how to stop feeling so dead. Louis moves the old vase, the hidden one, made by his mom in a pottery class long forgotten, in a time when his mom still found pottery classes funny. The last time this vase has seen any flowers was before Louis' dad left. Louis found a sunflower plantation in a nearby street and stole four flowers: one for his mom, one for his dad, one for himself and one for someone that Louis hadn't met yet. The whole idea sounds funny now. Funny and slightly depressing. Below the old vase, it's Louis' key. A secret spot no one knows. Louis unlocks the door and enters his house. For his desperation, it seems to be colder inside than it is outside and hearing the thunders and the sound of the rain, Louis is secretly glad that the weather reflects his humor. He feels petty. He doesn't care. The house is empty, as it usually is. Louis climbs the stairs to his bedroom slowly. It was a special day. It's no one's fault if Louis feels lonely and cold already. It was a special day and still Louis wanted more. Always greedy. Still, in this cold, his teeth are cackling and he misses Harry's warmth. Without thinking twice, Louis decides to change his path. Who needs sleep? He is going to drown himself in the hottest water until his body turns numb, until he stops missing Harry so damn hard, until he feels Harry with him again. He sits down on his bed for only a moment, only to take his wet shoes off. He doesn't know how, but he ends up falling asleep in less than a minute.

❥

It is already late when Louis wakes up. All his muscles are sore and there's drool on his pillow, but he will deal with that later. He makes an effort to open his eyes, inexplicably heavier than usual. He is met immediately with his mother's figure, perfectly recognizable even in the dim light from Louis' bedside lamp. She is sitting in his armchair, uniform and ponytail, staring out the window with longing in her eyes. Louis doesn't actually remember the last time she's been to his bedroom, which makes the whole scene a bit awkward. Guiltily, Louis realizes that here, in his bedroom, she loses her status of "tourist'' in reality and earns one of "intruder". Despite the guilt, Louis can't really help the feeling of invasion. The last time she's visited his room must have been short after his father left, when she tried to comfort him and Louis ended up being the one comforting her instead. "Sometimes people leave, mom", he said. "Sometimes you do too ", he thought but never voiced it out loud. Maybe he should have. Seeing her in his room makes Louis feel like something bad happened, something they must talk about or, better yet, something he must talk about, carefully, in the correct way, as he comforts her. The feeling gives him a small amount of anxiety, even when everything else seems normal. She looks distracted and slightly sad, the usual, and it's only when he sits up on the bed that she turns around, surprised.

\- Look who's finally up. How are you feeling, Lou?

Louis can feel the coldness on his bones and it bothers him deeply, so he will later blame his bad mood on how uncomfortable his own bed feels after a day spent a world way, on the summertime with a flower prince. Harry managed to ruin not only his heart but the comfiness of his bedroom and this seems slightly unfair. To add up to this bad mood, there's his mother's intrusion into his safe space and the anxiety it already triggered. There are enough reasons that justify how rude his answer is. He still feels bad for it after.

\- Just took a quick nap, mom. Can't you leave me alone for a second? 

She doesn't flinch. She barely reacts. Considering the alternative options, it's probably for the best. If Louis' answer had been directed to his father, the end result would've been extremely different. Equally painful, though.

\- You've been sleeping for so long, Louis…

And this comment irritates him even more because it's probably just another signal of how increasingly distant from reality her mind is getting. She can't even pay attention to normal routine activities. At the same time that Louis wonders how he even thought that leaving her was a good idea, he regrets not having done it sooner. The comment is expressing in words, vague and senseless ones, how she is losing her sanity, how he is losing his mother to herself. He slept at best for an hour and here she is, in his room, slightly concerned - which warms Louis' heart a bit, but not enough to erase how bad he feels for not having a normal mother, for not having a chance at being properly loved by a family. He closes his eyes instead of crying.

\- Is this about your problem, Louis?

Louis freezes.

\- We can talk about it... I haven't seen you this weak in a long time.

Because he took a nap?! Where is this even coming from?

\- Don't you wanna eat?

She's so unpredictable Louis wants to explode. He actually wants to get as far away from the explosion as possible. Peace. Tranquility. He should have left. He knows it. He should have left and taken Harry with him. That's a good plan.

\- I already ate. 

Close-eyed, he makes an effort to taste clementines and strawberries and when his mouth waters, it doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels magical. He wants to fall asleep again.

\- Louis…

\- I already ate. 

It's the first time in a long time he means it.

She doesn't seem to believe him, which is fair, but she also seems to have had enough. She lets the air flow out of her mouth tiredly and Louis doesn't feel guilty. He closes his eyes when she stands up.

\- Glad you woke up. Didn't want to leave you here like that, all by yourself.

He knows she is standing by the bedroom door and reluctantly opens his eyes.

\- I have a shift in two hours, I'm on call until the morning.

\- Have fun, mom. 

She doesn't answer. He waits until she closes his bedroom door to stretch, to get out of his blanket cocoon and to let the coldness surround him completely. It's painful, but it makes him feel something. It's way better than the numbness that was threatening to take over. "This is self punishment and it isn't good for you". It isn't. Self punishment, Louis means, it isn't. It's… adventure. Feelings. He stands up and his teeth don't chatter and he doesn't really shiver, but it's a close call. His wet clothes, now only a bit damp, cling to his body and if he tries hard enough, there's a quiet smell of flowers. He closes his eyes and surrenders to the icy weather until he can't take it anymore. In the dark, alone, he shivers and his stomach growls and it's enough. Since his favorite source of heat isn't available at the moment, he will have to settle for the hottest bath possible, the one he promised himself earlier. May the burning water heal us all, he thinks, before locking the bathroom door.

❥

Getting out of the shower and returning to his bedroom, Louis decides that he's had enough of this house for the day. Too hollowed, too empty. He needs a breath of fresh air. He eyes the colorful mountain made out of blankets that he built in order to keep himself warm and can't help a small smile. He touches them with his fingertips as he sits on the bed to put on his shoes. The blankets are all way less cozy and way less soft than Harry's dark orange sweater, but still, they feel right on Louis' skin, like they belong. The blankets belong to Louis, they are real and they are here now. Touchable. What difference does softness make if it cannot be felt, if it cannot be touched? Unreachable softness. In times like this, immersed in a moonlight-bathed loneliness, all by himself, Harry feels simply like a distant dream; a childhood memory from better times, calling from a happy place way out of reach. Louis wishes he was far away as well.

In order to keep his running-away-desire at bay, Louis is going to follow the same steps he does almost every night, getting as far away as he can, giving his dreams a little taste of freedom. After their little rendezvous, Harry got him thinking about Harvey Milk and, secretly, about how maybe California is a good place to start over. All those beautiful parks to explore, the Golden Gate, Disneyland, Alcatraz. Way different from Doncaster, sure, but isn't that exactly what he is looking for? Louis has probably had plans to escape before he could walk. A curious baby, his mother used to say and, in the beginning, it was indeed out of curiosity. His grandmother promised him, more than once, that they would travel the world together and Louis would go crazy on the afternoons they spent together. "Nana, can we do Egypt?". "And France, granny, please?". "Let's go to Mykonos!". She never once said no. Louis misses her most at night. He already dreamt about meeting new people and getting to know new places before things got bad at home. Curiosity later became a vital need. That wish has only gotten stronger in the last years and that is why Louis gets a strange feeling on his chest right now. Standing on his feet, next to his bed, prepared to make his way to the door, Louis stops. Hidden below the beat up armchair he's got since he was a kid, he can see a couple of bag straps peeking out. They belong to Louis' emergency bag. Emergency bag, that's how he decided to call it. Louis remembers packing up all he could carry and that was... yesterday, he thinks. The day before, maybe, although it feels further away than that. When he packed his emergency bag, Louis had decided he was ready to go, that was it, he was going to escape. He even wrote his mother a letter, left a bit of money inside, she would understand. He can see the envelope from where he stands. Louis would never admit to the amount of time he spent contemplating and hating the irony of following his father's steps. It isn't about genetics nor character. There's no need to brood over it. Instead, he made a plan and was about to stick to it but apparently all that urge, all that need for going away, has, since then, almost disappeared. Louis is a burnout candle. He is a powerful speedboat that suddenly ran out of gas. A deflated balloon. He stares at the bag straps astonished at himself. He still wants to leave, yeah, sure, but... someday. It doesn't feel urgent. It feels like it is something for the future. The strange feeling weighting in Louis' chest comes from the realization that since meeting Harry this morning he hasn't thought about the bag once. Harry seems to have unwillingly ruined Louis' escaping plans and that is simply too much to think about right now. Louis is too cold and too alone for that. On his way to the door, he kicks the bag further under the armchair. He will deal with that later.

From the hallway, Louis can see that the house is completely dark except for one trembling light coming from the kitchen. His mother is probably having her mandatory cigarette, then, accompanied by candle lights. She must be leaving soon. The candles were meant as an affectionate gesture for baby Louis, aiming not to bother him with the flashy kitchen light. Now, Louis suspects that his mother simply enjoys the sad vibe that the candles create; the abandoned wife smoking her sorrows away type of thing. In the first months following his father's departure, Louis used to sit on the stairs, out of sight, watching her watch the road. It was the closest they got to a proper quality family time. Louis still does it sometimes and lately he has begun to wonder if the love for the loneliness aura is a genetic trait. Maybe his mother needs her candles and her cigarettes; maybe Louis needs his stairs and his sad mother. We all build our sadness with different parts, in different ways. Today's melancholy, though, is not meant to be shared. Louis turns around to his room and goes straight for the window. It is a trick he mastered years ago. One foot after the other, holding tight into the foliage. The perfect spy. Louis knows exactly where he must fit in his feet, it's all part of the adventure. He begins to climb down his window. When he gets closer to the ground, he jumps into a mountain of leaves he built there exactly for this reason. A small jump and the perfect atterrissage, Louis is free.

He turns towards the same way he always does and begins to walk the same path he's walked a thousand times before. That is one thing he knows; got it perfectly memorized. Could probably do it with eyes closed. Just down the street, passing by that reddish ugly house. Then, it's just a couple of fences to jump, really quick, no one's gonna see it. It's really not far from his house, but it's secret and it's only his. He realizes now that it is probably what Harry would call Louis' special place. It's a good name, if Louis would say so himself. It's Louis' special place. Less than 10 minutes after climbing out of his window, Louis approaches it. It stands tall as ever, alone in the same old wasteland. Louis' own water tower. Or, as it is written on it's base, "Tozier's Water Tower - 1867". Who cares, it is clearly Louis' now. Louis takes a moment to greet the old thing as if it was a good old friend and, in some ways, it kind of is, and starts climbing the spiral staircase around it. It may be due to the weather or maybe due to shit materials used to build it, but the stairs look like they melted at some point along the way. All crooked in some steps. Louis spent a good amount of his childhood believing that the water tower's staircase was actually really soft and would tense up whenever he touched it. He spent an even greater amount of time testing that theory. Louis is not proud of it.

Usually, the higher he climbs, the colder it gets, but now, maybe due to the anticipation of being once again close to the stars, it almost gets warmer, more inviting. Reaching the top before he knows it, Louis notices that he is almost in a good mood. Must be the water tower effect. Louis lays down immediately, next to the center, where he usually does. It feels good to be back here and Louis can feel it in the air. There's a breeze; there's absolute silence; and there's nothing else. Just Louis and the sky, exactly how he likes it. Louis has always preferred the nighttime, especially on pleasant nights like this. It feels like everything is calmer, quieter; peacefully waiting for good things to happen. The daylight is usually too brash, too flashy. It makes sense that nighttime is the natural state of the universe, that is how it should be. The daytime is only caused by a nearby, radiating ball of flame. If the ball of flame would excuse him for a second, Louis believes that his natural state is also the nighttime. Maybe Louis is a bat. Another theory to put to test later.

The sky looks amazing. The moon knows that Louis is admiring her, like a song he can't get tired of listening. The sonnet of the lonely lover. Louis wonders if it should bother him that he has seen more of the surface of the moon with his own eyes than he has of the earth. He promises himself he will change that someday. Here, in his secret place, in what feels like a summer night, so close to the stars, it all feels possible, achievable. It is a good place, Louis should bring Harry up here sometime. He admires the moon one second longer and is just about to close his eyes when he hears it. The lowest noise, barely audible, a hardly-there footstep. Shit. That's it. Louis is about to be murdered. Louis is about to be murdered in his hiding place. It wasn't even such a good life and he's probably too old to die young by now. Shit. Louis shouldn't have gone too far, what was he thinking? Alone, in the middle of nowhere, out of sight? Now that's a good idea, you twat. Petrified by fear, Louis curls himself into a ball and glares at the top of the stairs. At least his murderer will see how pissed Louis was at being killed.

Louis waits.

Waits.

And, suddenly, a chestnut mop of hair appears, followed immediately by a loving, kind, smile. Louis is well aware that he isn't reciprocating said adorable smile. He does not regret it. Instead, he is shooting daggers with his eyes at Harry, who simply finishes climbing up the stairs and stands on the top of Louis' water tower, looking at Louis expectant. Louis, who is still a ball of fear on the floor. Harry's smile does not waver. Louis hates him.

\- Damn, those eyes can easily break a heart.

Louis is going to kill him.

\- How, Harold?

How did he get here? How did Louis not listen to him before? The staircase is pretty noisy, especially with those Bambi legs of his. How did he know where to find Louis? How did he manage to escape his curfew? Just...how?

\- Don't be so impressed, I always know where to find you.

Louis is very, very impressed.

Harry makes his way towards Louis, who is slowly absorbing the shock and, worst of all, trying to deal with the realization that, when confronted with a mortal threat, his basic instinct is the same of a possum. In case of imminent death, Louis plays dead. That's it, Louis is a scared possum.

\- Louis. Is there enough room for me here?

Louis, the possum, just turns on his side, grumpily, long enough for Harry to lay down next to him and then proceeds to plop down on top of Harry's chest. Harry doesn't seem to mind; especially if his right hand, which is now surrounding Louis' waist, is something to go by. In all honesty, it was already a good night before this, sure, but it feels complete now somehow. Warmer enough to feel like a whole different place. It's a warm night and the sky is full of stars; there's nothing else Louis could ask for.

- So, how was it?

- How was what?

- You know it, Harry. The doctor's appointment.

Harry takes a deep breath, swallows and looks up at the sky before answering.

- I am stable enough.

Apparently, "stable enough" is the new concept to which Harry is going to hold on tight to. That's okay, Louis gets how he needs it. Before this one, the concept was "episode". "It's nothing permanent, you know, it's just an episode. It may never happen again". The last one was "uncertain diagnosis". "It's not bad news, exactly. See, it can be anything". "Stable enough" should be a new good concept for Louis and it would be if Harry hadn't said it in that tone. The bitter tone that they both know way too well. It's the tone Harry doesn't use for anyone but himself. And he uses it only in secret, where no one can hear him. After all the fake smiles aren't needed anymore, when he doesn't need to pretend to be calm and can really vent about what he goes through on a daily basis, that's when the tone shows up. Louis suspects that this may be the only topic that Harry feels way too uncomfortable to discuss with Louis, which is an irony on itself. The topic makes Harry feel vulnerable, like it's painful for others to be around him. Doesn't matter how many times Louis explains to him the particular type of pain Louis feels deep down on his chest when he can't see Harry, when he can't feel Harry close. Louis doesn't really explain, but he knows that Harry knows. Even so, Harry feels fragile and worthless, doesn't matter what he says to everyone else. Louis knows the truth. It's almost like he believes that by discussing it with Louis, he would appear to be just a little too broken, beyond salvation, and it would scare Louis away. Harry is stupid like that. Doesn't get the concept of soulmates at all.

\- Have you been taking your meds?

If Harry's body tenses up, it's almost imperceptible.

- Louis...

\- I know, you don't like to talk about-

\- Neither do you.

And, well, that's an accusation that Louis can't neither confirm nor deny. It's not here nor there, it is just sad. That's all. Louis doesn't mind discussing it, he hates to see Harry struggling and he knows how Harry feels about his "condition". "Condition" is how Harry decided to call it in his head and Louis hates it. It's not a condition, it's just a situation, just a thing, a Harry's thing, that has to be dealt with. Faced. Harry knows how Louis feels about the whole thing; knows how Louis encourages Harry to face it and not run away from it. It is not Louis' battle to fight, though. He can only watch and hope for the best.

The silence settles in for a moment between them. Louis can feel the wind but it isn't cold. Protected by Harry's body the night seems to be even warmer. Louis feels safe again, like he could finally rest. His body starts to relax and he can feel everything that surrounds him. The hard chilly floor from the water tower rooftop; the texture of Harry's shirt; the heat from Harry's body contrasting to the night's freshness. Louis feels comfortably surrounded by it all. When he speaks, several moments passed by - Louis barely notices it, too immersed in that hazy feeling of belonging - his voice is nothing but a whisper.

\-  I was going to run away.

- I know.

Louis isn't surprised. In situations like this, Louis enters with the questions and Harry with the answers. They make a good team.

\- Why didn't I?

It seems silly to ask, but he has to. Harry takes another deep breath. The slow cadence of Harry's chest is way more comfortable than it has the right to be. Louis is almost getting sleepy with the rise and fall from Harry's chest. The mesmerizing cadence of it. Falling and rising, rising and falling. Harry bends his head down to get a better look at Louis.

\- Maybe I just needed you here a little longer?

Harry finishes the sentence with a sad and apologetic smile and lays his head back down. That seems to be as good of a response as any. And it's a fair point. If Harry needed him, Louis would move heaven, hell, and everything in between to get to him. It's kind of an unspoken agreement. Harry moves around a bit, settling on the hard floor, trying to get more comfortable. He ends up getting even closer to Louis in the process. Louis approves it. Standing this close to Harry's warmth, it's simply the perfect position for Louis to start contemplating all of the universe's secrets in a pre-sleep haze. And that is what he does.

Louis can't tell how much time has passed when Harry starts to move. Annoyingly. Louis was almost sleeping, fucker. Harry seems to be trying to get to his back pocket and it's kind of disturbing. Louis is about to complain when he feels an earbud being gently placed into his ear. A second of silence and then the melody is soft, beautiful, with synchronized drum plates in the background. Louis could sing it in his sleep. Just like honey - by The Jesus and Mary Chain - starts to fill all of their surroundings. Louis immediately knows that this song, and this place, are both forever ruined by everything that Harry is. Probably not ruined, more like blessed. Sanctified. Louis must confess - ha - that he feels kind of divine since meeting the Bambi boy, whenever that was. Holy. He's probably just ruined for anyone else.

_Listen to the girl_

_As she takes on half the world_

_Moving up and so alive_

_In her honey dripping beehive_

_Beehive_

_It's good, so good, it's so good_

_So good_

- Loved this song, curly.

\- Figured you would. It's sweet just like you... honey.

\- You did not just call me that.

\- Problem, hotstuff?

\- I feel embarrassment for you, Harry.

- I'll stop if you say something nice to me, honeybee.

\- Jesus Christ, where do you even come up with these?

\- Come on, sweetcheeks. Something nice.

\- Fine! You're not always terrible to be around.

\- No, muffin, involving the song.

\- What the fuck, Harry? That's cheating!

\- Come on, sexy pants.

\- Oh, God!

_Walking back to you_

_Is the hardest thing that_

_I can do_

_That I can do for you_

_For you_

\- Okay, fine. You must have a honeycomb for a heart, how else could a man be this sweet?

They are looking at the sky, so Louis can't see Harry's facial expression. Still he can feel Harry's smile right in his chest. It makes his heart somersaults.

\-  Figured I'd have a lionheart with all that talk about me being a lion cub.

_I'll be your plastic toy_

_I'll be your plastic toy_

_For you_

\- Yeah, you're probably a lionhearted king.

\- Oh, am I a king now?

_Just like honey_

_Just like honey_

_Just like honey_

_Just like honey_

_Just like honey_

\- You sure look like one.

\- Gonna call me your highness from now on?

\- Ha! You wish!

Probably yes. It's really sexy. King Harry. Yeah. Most definitely yes. That's how Louis is going to call Harry from now on. On his dreams, obviously. Not to Harry's face, no, never. His ego would just skyrocket and he would go looking for prettier boys to hang out with. Louis can't afford that. Louis likes to hang out with the noble boys. Give him some royalty. That's fine.

Harry's breathing is the only sound among all the silence.

- I'll still be a lionhearted king, though, yeah?

\- Obviously, your highness.

Louis shouldn't be surprised when Of Monsters and Men starts playing right after the first song is over. He really shouldn't. Louis should find it sappy instead of adorable, but it's hard to tone down his affection near Harry. Does the boy really need to be so endearing? Where did he even come from? How can Louis be lucky enough to find him in this world? King and Lionheart flows through the earbuds, linking them together through music.

_Howling ghost they reappear_

_In mountains that are stacked with fear_

_But you're a king and I'm a lion-heart_

_A lion-heart_

\- You are so sappy.

\- I am not sappy.

\- You're cliché.

\- You love it.

\- Do not. You're a little too much for me.

\- Well, and you are much too little for me.

Louis kicks him. He deserves it.

\- God, you're so violent.

If Harry really wanted to pull off a disapproving tone with the violent stuff, he should have tried way harder. There's laughter in his words.

\- Well, you're sappy and cliché.

\- I'm your favourite cliché.

\- Yeah, got me there, big boy.

Harry's completely at ease. Louis should have brought him here earlier. Maybe the secret water tower could be their secret castle. Harry just keeps building the perfect music selection. Troye Sivan and The Cure. Pixies and Cigarettes after sex. 1975 and Queen. Coldplay and The Police. Louis dozes off through the songs, feeling peaceful and calm around Harry's serenity. Every time Louis opens his eyes, he is even more comfortable than before, if that is even possible, Harry's smell is even better and he can feel Harry stargazing. Every time, no exception.

\- Gonna make a wish, Bambi?

Harry is startled that Louis is awake but recovers quickly. He answers in the same low voice that Louis used, almost whispering.

\- Already wished for you.

Louis feels himself being drawn closer to Harry. It's an urge, a need to be nearer, like Harry is a gravity Louis cannot avoid.

\- You're so lucky to have all this for yourself. I'd be here all day if I could. Admiring the moon... 

\- I think the moon would really like seeing you here everyday.

"I know I would", Louis thinks but doesn't say.

\- And the stars...

\- Like being close to the stars, curly?

\- Oh, yeah. Love it. They granted me my wish, yeah? They are kind to me. No one is ever kind.

Louis gets a sudden flashback of Chuck's story and feels a knife ripping through his heart only to imagine that Harry isn't being treated in the way he deserves.

\- No one but you.

Louis gets an unexpected kiss to the top of his head.

\- You're my little star, yeah? My little north star.

Louis nods quickly.

\- Always guide you back to the earth, love.

Harry doesn't try to hide his smile.

- I don't think that's how the north star works, Lou.

\- Shut up, you know nothing \- Louis says as he hugs Harry tighter.

The rhythmic rise and fall from Harry's chest begins to, once again, lull Louis to sleep. He closes his eyes and, right before losing consciousness, Louis can hear a low murmur that clearly belongs to Harry: "I think you're my favourite part of me". After that, Louis surrenders himself to sleep. It's a small nap but it's the best sleep he's got in a long time. It's peaceful. The only reason he wakes up is because Harry starts shaking too much. He opens his eyes slowly only to realize that they are not in the horizontal anymore. In front of him, Louis can see the water tower's staircase. Only then does he realize that Harry is, absurdly, carrying him. It's ridiculous. It doesn't even feel romantic. Louis feels like a misbehaved sheep that somehow managed to escape from the farm and is now being carried back to his sheep-family by the cute farmer boy. Harry falters again, from one step to the next.

Louis feels drunk. He can't really hear nor feel the impact that Harry's feet are supposed to make on the water tower's stairs and it gives him something close to a floating sensation, like they are both suspended on thin air. Extremely dangerous. Louis isn't exactly afraid. Harry's big hands are squeezing his sides hard even if Louis can barely feel it. Holding on to Louis' waist, Harry's fingers are the exact temperature of the warm night breeze and everything feels comfortable. It all feels like one. He's Louis' personal furnace. Ignoring the floating sensation and pretending not to notice the unusual warmth coming from Harry's body, Louis decides to focus on the more urgent matters at hand (that being his imminent death, obviously). It's been a strange day after all.

\- Harry, listen closely. If we fall, I'm going to kill you.

Harry laughs an easy laugh, a loud laugh, like it isn't the middle of the night and as if carrying all of Louis' weight is a minimal effort. It's plenty offensive. Louis should sue him.

\- Shh, close your eyes, baby. We're almost there.

If Louis only closes his eyes to avoid Harry from seeing him blush with the pet name, no one needs to know. Louis simply obeys.

The next time Louis wakes up, he is already in his bed, which isn't cold as it was before, being tucked in by Harry. It's honestly a dream coming true. Louis orders his mind to start working on fantasizing about alternative scenarios, parallel realities where Louis was bolder, greedier, and asked Harry to stay. For this Louis, having Harry in his bedroom is already enough emotion for one day and he feels too sleepy to keep Harry entertained tonight. Oh, he would keep Harry entertained-- He must have been smiling too hard. Or maybe Harry just did that weird thing where he guesses exactly where Louis' thoughts were going. Harry has stopped tucking Louis in and is just staring at Louis with big doe eyes, the only thing visible in the room's gloom. Louis wants to kiss him.

\- I want you to, you know.

Louis really wants to kiss him.

Harry chuckles and shakes his head.

\- Probably wouldn't be able to stop, though.

He gets closer to Louis and Louis can barely breathe. Another chuckle. Harry's voice is low and raspy and he's giving Louis bedroom eyes. All traces of the innocent curly Bambi boy are gone. The man before Louis is all grown up; seductive; inviting. He looks like all of Louis' wet fantasies morphed into one; one messy-haired, green-eyed lad, looking at Louis with an expression that can only mean that he is just as affected as Louis is. He wants this as much as Louis. Louis might as well have won the lottery.

- Not a good idea for tonight, yeah?

Louis stops his track of thoughts before it gets out of hand again. It's a slippery slope. For his efforts, Louis is rewarded with a forehead kiss. He is the luckiest. Louis is just about to close his eyes again, this time for a long night of sleep, when he hears Harry's farewell.

\- Goodnight, Lou. And... ahm... Thank you for showing up today. I've been waiting for a long time.

Louis isn't the slightest bit upset about the lack of dreams that night; he has already dreamt all day.

❥


	2. The Birthday

II

THE BIRTHDAY

October 8th

The alarm clock rings loudly, annoyingly, way too close to Harry's ears, and he's slightly embarrassed of how long it takes for him to recover control over his limbs and manage to turn off the noisy thing. The alarm clock was a gift from his parents, a fancy one at that, and it included a whole Bluetooth system where Harry could choose which song he would like to wake up to. It was meant to improve Harry's process of getting out of bed and that's exactly what it used to do: on weekdays, Harry used to wake up to Frank Sinatra's melodic voice and on weekends, he used to wake up later, even more relaxed, to the sweet sound of Echo & the Bunnymen. It was perfect and, as Harry damn well knows, nothing perfect ever lasts. At least not anywhere near the hands of Louis Tomlinson. So now, for God knows how long, Harry wakes up everyday to the loud musical apocalypse that is Justin Bieber's " _Baby_ ". It's absolutely terrible. He wakes up not knowing whether to smile or growl and it's a mess. If he tries to change the song, Louis hits him. In the head. Harry's pretty sure he's being tortured. He can't really say he minds all that much.

_You are my love, you are my heart_

_And we will never, ever, ever be apa-_

It's 7:00am.

It's a brand new day. Harry gives himself another extra five minutes in bed - "it's like you're relaxing from all your relaxing, curly" - and heads to the bathroom. In the mirror, he sees how long his hair is getting - "it's your mane, Harold" - and, not for the first time, considers cutting it short - "over my cold dead body". He brushes his teeth thoroughly and it's only when he's placing his toothbrush on its case that he notices the black square saucer. It's here every single morning so it's not like he's surprised, it's just that he almost forgot about its existence. In the saucer, there are three different pills, perfectly aligned: light blue, white and dark white. Louis would probably call it grey if Harry would let him talk about the pills, but Harry doesn't. They both know why.

Harry doesn't take too long staring down at the pills nor does he feel guilty like he used to. It's been a while since he did this for the first time and even though he's not sure how long exactly, there haven't been any side effects since, which only proves the efficacy of Harry's method. Its safety. Harry picks one by one individually - light blue, white and dark white - and holds them in his palm. Then, he gets as far away from the sink as he can and turns to face the toilet. He's done this before. There's a whole method. With his back leaning against the opposite wall, feeling the cold from the granite sipping through his pajamas, Harry throws the light blue pill into the air, a perfect parabola, and it falls right into the toilet. It makes no sound when it hits the water, but Harry pretends to hear a splash. He cheers like this is a basketball championship and he just scored the final point. Louis is making him silly lately. On a double throw, white and dark white follow the same path made by the light blue pill and all three face the same destiny. Harry cheers once more before flushing them down the toilet. What a perfect way to start the day.

Deep down, Harry is aware that this is not the best method to deal with his "condition", but he is also aware that tomorrow - and the day after that, and the one after that, until his parent's ran out of money; which, realistically, may never happen - there will always be another helper bringing another saucer to his bathroom, filled with another set of pills perfectly aligned. It doesn't matter what Harry wants, it doesn't matter that the pills cost significantly more to his parent's account than all the helper's wage combined. And since nothing really matters, Harry will deal with this in whatever way he seems fitting. It works or, at least, it makes things less terrible. "Really optimistic there, curly". See, Harry's an optimist now.

Louis usually mocks Harry's perception of his own life, but this, the whole invasion of his bedroom thing and the lack of choice and the lack of privacy, is just another privilege of being born into the family that he was. Harry spends his days following rules he doesn't really understand nor agree with and his nights are spent sleeping (or staying awake if he isn't lucky with his body's sleep schedule on a specific day) in a permanently open bedroom, completely accessible to whoever wants to enter it, ever since he lost his right to his own bedroom key. "Isn't it ironic that they are taking away your freedom by opening your door? There's a metaphor in there somewhere, I think". Louis would lock his bedroom door if Harry was visiting him, Harry guesses, and the thought makes a shiver run down his spine. He blames it on the cold air coming from his air conditioner as he turns it off.

Harry enters his closet and takes off his silk pajamas, throwing them into the basket of dirty clothes even after only one use. "Posh fancy boy". In an armchair, lie his clothes for the day, including socks and shoes. All of them ironed and carefully folded as if they were something fancier than just gym clothes, something more than a baggy black shorts, a dark blue t-shirt and his running shoes. Harry puts them on, ready for his early morning exercise, and turns around to check his calendar, pinned to a white frame that perfectly matches the colors of the rest of his room.

It's only after reading the list of his appointments for the day that Harry realizes that today is a Saturday and it sucks because Saturdays are his really busy days. Just like the rest of his week, honestly, with the exception of Sundays. Harry has to stop being so distracted. He was planning on hanging out on the Refuge with Louis during the afternoon, but now that will have to wait until tomorrow. It dampens his mood slightly, but it's ok. It's ok. He just has to stop being so distracted. Harry takes a couple of deep breaths, just like Louis taught him to, trying not to let the weight of the routine take his breath away and it works, again, it's ok. Trying to keep his thoughts positive, he reminds himself that at least now he will have some time to catch up on some reading - the interesting kind of reading, not school reading - and finally start on the Bukowski Louis found him on Whipped's library. Harry makes those new plans until he goes to double-check his afternoon schedule and realizes with a shock that today isn't just a Saturday, it's October 8th. He tries to contain the high tide of sadness filling up his chest because that's not what Chuck would have wanted, especially not on his birthday, but it's hard. The reading is canceled. Harry is going to visit Chuck and if Dr. Mills doesn't believe that this "attachment" is good for Harry's mental health, well, no one needs to know. It's a plan.

Harry washes his face and swallows the last drops of desperation and self hate from almost having forgotten Chuck's birthday. This is a date he holds dear in his most cherished memories, just as happy as his own birthday or as Christmas or as any other holiday, as long as it was spent surrounded by Chuck's laughs and by Chuck's stories. Harry stares at his reflection on the mirror until he gets his breathing under control and when the shadow of a dimple on his own cheek reminds him of Chuck's kind face, Harry lets out a smile. It's ok.

He returns to his bedroom and checks the alarm clock. Considering the hour, breakfast is probably already served at the Style's living room and Harry's hungry. As Harry repeats to himself his father's old saying ("early is on time; on time is late and late is unacceptable"), he grabs his exercise duffel bag and leaves his room. Harry's father, Richard Styles, despises tardiness and might as well be the only doctor who truly never left a patient waiting. There's a joke repeated constantly by Richard's circle of friends about how his clinic's waiting room was nothing but a waste of money. Hence, punctuality is just another rule Harry has to follow. Obviously, considering the distance between his bedroom and the living room, it becomes a challenge.

During his teenage years, Harry moved out of his childhood's bedroom, the one right next to Gemma's, where they would talk to each other through the thin wall, whispers and secrets, and made himself a new room in the attic. Nowadays, Gemma's childhood bedroom is as empty as young Harry's one. Harry thinks it's a good symbolism for how fast time passes and how they aren't kids anymore and how everything's changed since then. Including Gemma. Harry misses her terribly. Sometimes, deep down, in a hidden place on his mind he tries not to visit often, he envies her. She got away. The attic was reformed after what their mother, Virginia Styles, called "Harry's teenage rebellion phase" and it became larger and way more useful: huge closet, granite bathroom, the most comfortable bed and everything else Harry could possibly need. It didn't have Gemma's secret whispers through the wall, waking him up in the middle of the night, nor did it have the light blue walls decorated with tiny Mickey Mouses, and it sometimes felt lonely, but Harry survived.

He feels guilty whenever he thinks about his privileges, about how different his reality is when compared to the life of most people, especially with the life of those who work in his own house, who help his family daily. Harry's lucky, he knows, but it still feels wrong, even when he didn't ask for any of it. It doesn't seem to matter much either way and he can understand why. He's a lucky boy living a privileged life, he doesn't deserve much sympathy. It's ok.

The attic is relatively isolated from the rest of the house, a factor young-Harry might have considered subconsciously, already seeking some sort of freedom even in his younger years. In the initial project of their house, the attic was supposed to become a greenhouse, his mother's idea, filled with all sorts of plants and flowers, birds and butterflies. "It's like our private Central Park, Harry", Virginia once said. The greenhouse received an outside staircase, a glorified version of a fire escape, leading directly to the street, which was the only part of the initial project that effectively became real. Therefore, Harry has direct access to the street, had it all through his teenage years; a factor his parents never seemed to realize and that he kept, still keeps, as a well-treasured secret.

What Harry treasures the most, though, are the attic's huge windows that allow the fresh night breeze to cool off his thoughts. Before Louis' delicate fingers, it used to be the wind that caressed Harry's skin and made him feel less lonely. He used to sleep with the windows wide open, which isn't a real problem with all the hired security around their house. Freedom. Harry prefers to call it privilege. Since Louis, though, he can't remember the last time he did open those big windows in search of something bigger, more meaningful, than a breeze. The affection from the wind is still good, still refreshing, but it's almost a second thought now. He's already receiving all the attention he needs. On his way to the elevator, Harry almost bumps into Rosa, already cleaning.

\- Good morning, Mr. Styles.

Rosa greets him in the same way she does every morning and if Harry recognizes the same old trace of wariness in her tone, he pretends not to notice. It's probably undetectable for anyone else but him and that's enough discretion to ask from her. Harry wouldn't exactly describe Rosa as a kind person - neither would Louis - but she's always respectful and usually tries to keep things pleasant between them. She's most likely the culprit responsible for the black square saucers every morning, but Harry doesn't hold it against her.

\- Will you ever call me Harry, Rosa?

Harry asks, just like he does every morning.

\- Probably not, Mr. Styles.

She says it with a small professional smile, her usual one, and it's all routine. Rosa has been working for Harry's family ever since he can remember but they never really been close and it's no one's fault. As much as she tries to hide it, Rosa has always preferred Gemma and obviously so has Harry and that's the deal.

Rosa looks older than she really is, but that might just be an impression caused by the uniform Harry's mother demands she wear while working. Surrounded by shades of gray, black and white, monochromatic, Rosa looks almost like a polite ghost, always formal, haunting the Styles' residence on her after-death. She wears her dark hair in a tight bun, surrounded by a grey net, and after seeing her in nothing but the same outfit for several years, Harry began to consider it almost like her second skin. This is Rosa and this is what she looks like in his mind. All the time. At the beach, at the mall, sleeping. It's funny to think of it, but in reality, it feels like another barrier of intimacy they will never break. Always polite and always professional, but always distant.

Over a decade ago, Rosa married the gardener, John Anderson, hired by Harry's father, and became Ms. Rosa Garcia Anderson. That's how Gemma would always call her, declaring Rosa's whole name through the hallways as a private joke, Gemma the medieval announcer with a trumpet, and Harry has always liked the way it sounded. After chopping the wrong trees in a wrong manner, according to Harry's mother, though, John was fired. According to Harry's father, he was simply let go after stealing some money whose absence he thought no one would notice. "Just another opportunistic thief, son".

Still, Rosa stuck around after that, listening to the jokes Virginia Styles used to make during breakfast and dinner, talking about how at least now there would be someone taking care of Rosa and John's house, as if by firing John, she was doing Rosa a favor. "A stay-at-home husband, Rosa, isn't that the dream?". Gemma wouldn't hide the way she would roll her eyes, exasperated. It wasn't long after John's lay-off that Gemma moved out. Rosa would always give their mother a small smile, polite, after every joke. Harry hasn't heard much about their marriage since, but he hopes it's still stable and loving. He knows they never had children, though, Rosa and John, and Harry secretly wonders if all of Rosa's maternal love was already spent on Gemma while she was growing up and considering how one Styles kid was obviously more than enough, there was no maternal love left for Harry. Maybe his own mother feels the same, who knows. "She doesn't, Harold, for fuck's sake". Yeah, who knows.

Still, maternal love or not, Harry considers his relationship with Rosa a good one, cordial. He would love to think of her as a friend, but it wouldn't be right. Not only did Harry's mother spend a considerable amount of time perfecting the barrier between Rosa and the Styles' family, keeping her out with a fence that screamed "employee, not friend", but Rosa also snitched on Harry one too many times to be considered loyal. She lost his trust throughout the years, ratting on him whenever he stayed out past curfew, in the old days, or whenever she found un-swallowed pills. Harry doesn't trust her. In a polite way, obviously. When he's feeling mean, he sees her as a distant aunt, a nosy gossipy old distant aunt, that cleans the house and baby-sits Harry and secretly works as a double-agent for Harry's parents. She's always a little too alert and Harry's always a little too uncomfortable. Somehow, Harry suspects this dynamic is exactly what his parents were aiming for.

- Breakfast's ready?

\- Of course, Mr. Styles.

Rosa answers as she presses the elevator's button for Harry, something he should have already gotten used to but hasn't, the unwelcome servitude of it, and in less than 10 seconds the elevator's pearl white doors open, revealing a shining marble floor and the cleanest mirror to ever exist. Harry enters the elevator and closes his eyes; waits for the little shake that lets him know he reached the first floor.

The architect Virginia Styles hired for the drawing of their house, Remi Warren, had a sense of grandeur almost as big and almost as cocky as her own and the pair became a perfect match for as long as the project lasted. Harry can't help but remember how Remi would rather have been a perfect match with Chuck instead. "Remi called me 13 times yesterday", Chuck would say, "He called me Muffin on a text, Harry, fucking Muffin". Obviously, Harry called Chuck his Muffin for months after that. Remi was always inappropriate and slightly gross in his comments, but Harry and Chuck made jokes out of it and Remi's name became a code word for arrogant or delusional (or whatever else they thought about Remi in the moment, honestly). "Sometimes your father can't help but to be a bit of a Remi, Harry. That's when you call me and I come and pick you up".

It sounds mean looking back now, especially since Remi made Shrek 2 an even better experience for the two of them (whenever Prince Charming popped up on the screen, Chuck would whisper to Harry "Do you think Remi ever gets honored of how smarter they made him look in the movie?" and Harry would laugh and answer that Remi would obviously complain about how they didn't get the silkiness of his hair right). Even Harry's mother would send a small smile their way if they were watching the movie together, exchanging guilty glances whenever Prince Charming was being a bit much. It sounds mean, but it was funny. Funny and fair. When Harry, secretly starting to explore the nuances of his own sexuality, eventually asked Chuck if he didn't think Remi was handsome, Chuck's answer was a short "I only date interesting people, kid". When Harry laughed, Chuck added: "This is an advice".

Despite the failure of his advances in regard to Chuck's love life, Remi managed to successfully accomplish all of Virginia's wildest dreams. Perfectly. Remi's the one to be thanked for Harry's golden fire escape and Harry appreciates it. Maybe he can buy Remi a muffin someday, even if Harry secretly prefers to pretend that most of the stuff too-Chuck-related stopped existing when he did. It doesn't feel right for them to outlive him. It feels disrespectful. Maybe Harry won't buy Remi his muffin after all.

Their home - the "Styles' fortress", as Richard Styles calls it, completely reming it - is a mansion that blossomed out of the fingers of Remi Warren and whose canvas he painted in tones of white ivory and gold, somewhat inspired by the most popular celebrities' taste at the time. "A clean aesthetic", according to Harry's mother, but to Harry is just somewhat pleasing, almost boring, but he's used to it by now. He sometimes wishes for more color; a splash of something, a bit of art, a tapestry. Anything to make their house a bit warmer, cozier, more like a home. Once, as a kid, he sneaked into Gemma's room while she was watching the Kardashian's show and Harry couldn't help but notice all the similarities between his own home and the one appearing on Gemma's laptop. Since then, he feels like he lives in a huge Kardashian mansion. Cold, impersonal, white and gold. It is a privilege, of course, he knows, but it feels extremely empty.

The lift does its little shake and opening his eyes, Harry is met with the painting of his family, all four of them, eternalized in a huge canvas above the living room table. Three proudly impassive faces and one awkward smile. Harry's still proud of it. "As you should, curly". On one side of the table, Virginia Styles, dressed in all black, in a tight and low ponytail, scrolls through her phone while sips slowly on her black coffee, looking somewhat irritated. On the other side of the table, Richard Styles, in a light blue formal shirt, holds a folded newspaper, a traditionalist, and seems to deeply analyze Harry's expression and Harry's clothes and Harry's every move before announcing:

\- Good morning, son. Everything ok?

Which translates to "Good morning, son. Have you taken your medication?". Harry knows how it is. If he thought a little longer about his father's question, Harry would realize that he just completed, for the first time in his life ever since the treatment started, one month without taking his medication. 36 days, to be precise, free of the bad chemicals that mess up with his brain. Perfect. He never felt better. Instead of really thinking about his father's question, though, Harry goes for his usual automatic answer:

- Everything perfect, dad. How about you?

He tries not to sound ironic and he thinks he manages it.

\- Uhm.

Richard Styles nods.

\- Slept well, then?

\- The perfect recommended amount of 8 hours a night.

Ok, now there's no escaping the irony, but except from the subtle raise of his eyebrows, Richard Styles doesn't react further than a murmured "Good". He unfolds his newspaper and goes back to his reading. Good.

It's good but it also means that it's Harry's mother's turn now. Still holding her cellphone and ignoring the scrambled eggs Rosa made her earlier (as they go cold on a black square plate, a bigger version of Harry's bathroom saucer), Virginia Styles starts:

\- Harry, everything ok with your schedule for the day?

Harry nods.

\- Do we need to go over any part of it?

Harry shakes his head.

\- Good. I'll be heading over your grandfather's soon and-

\- Can I come?

Harry's almost as surprised as his mother when the question leaves his mouth. He can't remember the last time he spontaneously visited his grandfather. Richard's attention shifts from the newspaper to Harry's face and that's also new.

\- You... You want to go to your grandfather's house?

Harry nods.

Virginia stares at him for a second too long.

\- Well, Harry, you know how you've got your whole Saturday routine to attend to and how you shouldn't-

- Well, it's about Chuck, isn't it? That's why you're going over there?

Richard Styles releases a deep breath, impatient and concerned, even as he returns his attention to the daily news. Harry envies the amount of emotions he can express with nothing but a puff of air. Virginia blinks for a couple of seconds, staring at Harry clueless until her eyes turn sad.

\- Harry-

\- I mean, is it about Chuck's birthday?

\- Harry, you shouldn't-

Richard doesn't turn his head to look at them when he interrupts their conversation, but his eyes are unmoving, which means he isn't reading the news anymore but he still doesn't judge this specific family conversation to be worthy of his full attention:

\- Is that today?

\- So it isn't about Chuck, then?

Harry's parents exchange a brief and silent look, as if Harry isn't sitting right next to them. Richard and Virginia silently agree on something they think Harry doesn't understand, a strategy to go about the "difficult" topic at hand, and the condescension irritates him. Obviously, it doesn't make Harry as mad as the fact that on days like this they pretend Chuck is nothing but a painful memory, but still, it deeply irritates him.

\- Well, now that I think about it, that's probably why I was invited over.

Virginia declares as Richard nods.

\- And I wasn't?

Harry's not sure if anyone answers. He closes his eyes for a second and gets lost in the sounds of their house in the morning - the chirping of the birds in the backyard's trees; the clinking of small spoons on big teacups; Rosa's steps somewhere upstairs - and thinks about Chuck. Harry starts to recall the stories Chuck used to tell him about how no one was ever kind. That's what he used to say. "No one was ever kind". Before he opens his eyes, Harry silently sends a thought into the universe, hoping it reaches Chuck in wherever star he is now: Harry tells him not to worry and to prepare himself for later because they will celebrate his birthday together. It's a promise.

Virginia Styles has the courtesy to wait until Harry takes his first sip of coffee - with cream and sugar; "Yuck, Harold" - to continue their oh so pleasant morning conversation.

\- Harry, I'm not sure if you had a chance to take a look yet, but there are already four different outfits in your closet for you to choose from.

Harry has no idea what she's talking about. She seems to notice.

\- For Gemma's party...

Oh, sure. Gemma's third engagement party (with the same person, Harry must add). She will be hosting a party a month until their wedding day. Nothing extravagant about it at all. Completely accessible.

\- For this one, the theme will be the 1920's. A Great Gatsby sort of thing.

Harry doesn't laugh, but he thinks, not for the first time, that Gemma's changed. Harry's not bitter either. Gemma's future husband, William Marsh - Harry's father calls him Bill; Harry and Louis secretly call him Billy - is a good guy and Gemma's nice enough and if they just happen not to love one another, who really needs love in a marriage? "So overestimated". Right?

\- Are you planning on bringing someone?

Harry's mother asks him like she already knows his answer and is only asking due to politeness and protocol. That's the reason - some blue blue eyes remind him that it's not the only reason - why he answers:

\- I'm not sure yet.

That seems to capture the whole table's attention. Even Rosa, who's just passing by the living room, the professional ghost carrying a pile of folded clothes, walks slower and stares at Harry for a moment longer. Perfect. That's exactly what he was going for.

- I'll let you know.

His parents share another look. Harry smirks and Richard coughs.

\- Harry, don't forget to drink a lot of water during the day, yeah? - Richard Styles tells Harry like he did everyday before this one - You should take good care of your liver, considering the amount of medicat-

Virginia Styles scolds Richard with nothing but her eyes and he interrupts his sentence midway, not without giving her a look of exasperation. It's almost funny. She smiles at Harry then, like nothing ever happened.

Virginia Styles is a practical woman, raised by a rich conservative man, Walter Birk. He's the most pragmatic man Harry knows. Pragmatic and narrow-minded, but that's beside the point. Harry thinks of him as his mother's father. Never his own grandfather. Never Chuck's father. They aren't exactly close, Harry and Walter, but they sometimes coexist, even if Harry can't remember the last time they did.

Unfortunately for Harry, Virginia and Walter can be really similar. Harry doesn't blame her. Virginia and Chuck lost their mother before they reached preschool age and they had to grow up in a mix of Walter's impatience and baby-sitter's compassion and no real maternal figure. It wasn't ideal, but it was way worse for Chuck. Virginia pulled through. A tough kid. Chuck once said she became more and more like Walter as the time went by and then apologized to Harry as if it was a secret he shouldn't have shared. "Some people soften up over time and some people, well, some people just go the other way", Chuck had said before the apologies. Harry wonders if that's what Gemma's going through now. He hopes it isn't.

With all of Chuck's theories about the secret reasons that led Virginia into her stuck-up and closed-off way of living, Harry knows something Chuck can't possibly know. It's sad as much as it's true. Chuck's death was the final blow, the last push she needed to lose her faith into a better, happier world. She drowned the universe she shared with Chuck, where everything was more relaxed and free. Chuck took the largest part of her happiness when he left and at his funeral, she described to Harry between sobs that losing her little brother was like having knives twisting all over her chest. All over her back. She didn't leave her bedroom for a week. She went numb, distant, less loving; more similar to Walter. Death never takes only one person at the time, when there's loved involved, everyone else dies a little too.

When Chuck was alive, Virginia was the perfect equilibrist, walking a tightrope between tradition and freedom. One night, years ago, Gemma was crying about an old boyfriend and Virginia tried to comfort her with hugs and wine and after too many glasses, Virginia was the one making confessions. She started talking about her college sweetheart, Stuart, her first real boyfriend. He wanted to take her to Australia, so they could live from nothing but the ocean, the sun and the heat. Virginia called him a prince. That night, Richard Styles was travelling for work, a Medical Convention across the country, and Gemma spent the night in her mother's room. Gemma said it was nice, said it was fun. They stayed up until the morning and Virginia laughed hard, reminisced over small details and when she eventually cried, it wasn't due to regret but simply due to the fact memories hurt sometimes. In the afternoon, Gemma told Harry about the whole thing and Harry spent more time than he cares to admit looking for traces of this australian version of Virginia. Sometimes, he found them. A loud laugh, an improvised plan, a spontaneity that made her belong on top of a surfboard, dark hair in the wind, the ocean waves reflected on the green of her peaceful eyes. Harry could see it all, even if it only lasted for a couple of seconds at a time. Tradition has its power too, as much as it did freedom, and Virginia was always almost falling into Walter's ways and Harry knows that Chuck's death made her collapse completely. After it happened, in many ways she became Walter's Virginia and Harry still pities the woman she could have been.

As far as Harry is concerned, the tightrope logic continues to be, in fact, a perfect way to approach Virginia's mind. She is always balancing herself and that's probably why she looks so tense most of the time, always slightly irritated, as if there are always different forces trying to pull her in opposite directions. She is always making an effort for the middleground, concentrating. She has to be strong enough to resist all the different forces, to maintain her balance while she walks through life. A tightrope walker.

Example 1: Virginia walks a tightrope between her eternal grief for Chuck's death and her process of moving on. She makes constant references to everything that Chuck liked (his favorite dishes, movies, weathers, authors) and when something makes her think of Chuck in a place where she can't or won't bring the memory up, she gives a small smile to herself, a smile that no one but Harry sees. Chuck's always on her mind and there's no denying it. At the same time, her process of moving on included throwing away most of Chuck's stuff (a crime that Harry immediately interrupted) and pretending not to remember the date of Chuck's birthday. Different forces pulling her apart.

Example 2: When Harry's "condition" started to be discovered and explored, the equilibrium Virginia tried to find was between science and religion. Depending on the day, Harry was lacking god. Depending on the day, he was lacking a pharmacist. Her brain is a delicate scale, tipped towards the fact that Harry always needs to be worked on, molded, improved. They both know it's a lost cause.

But she tries. Harry knows she does. She's a good mother and in that sense, she's not as much like Walter as she could be. Despite all of Walter's homophobia - narrated by Chuck in detail while he begged Harry not to let his stories ruin Harry's relationship with his grandfather ("Virginia's father", Harry corrected him) - Virginia is perfect when it comes to dealing with Harry's sexuality. They never talked about it. Instead, one day they both went shopping with Gemma. They were surrounded by the fanciest party dresses when Gemma spotted a cute guy - "I swear he looked like Norman Bates, Muffin, you have no idea", Harry would later tell Chuck - and started calling him her future husband. The boy never noticed her, but Virginia scoffed and said, loud and clear, in the middle of an expensive clothing store, "He would be a way better fit for Harry", and that was it. Harry suspects it reminds her of Chuck in a way, the gay thing. It's not ideal for your mother's love to come from the fact that you remind her of someone else, but she hides it well and it's Chuck and it's enough for Harry.

\- Excited to see Michael, today?

She asks like a friend, like a confidant, wiggling eyebrows and everything. Excited. She even locks her phone and gives Harry her undivided attention, Harry likes it.

As soon as she asks, though, comes a loud screech from a chair being pushed away from the table and Richard Styles stands up.

\- Special case at the clinic today, I almost forgot.

\- It's Saturday, Rick...

\- They're testing a new vaccine today, it's important. I'll be back for dinner.

Richard pats Harry on the shoulder and kisses Virginia's cheek.

Harry tries not to take it personally, even when that's what it is. Unlike his mother, who never gave Harry a reason to worry about his sexuality, Richard Styles' possible reaction to Harry's "preferences" (the term Gemma claimed he once used at a work party) is a source of constant fear for Harry. And it's a reaction that never comes, a ticking time bomb Harry's not even sure it will eventually explode. Not that a word about the topic was spoken between Richard and Harry, it wasn't. Richard simply pretends to be deaf anytime the topic is brought up, but he hasn't tried to set Harry up with any of his friend's daughters anymore, so Harry considers it progress. "Optimist", right?

Virginia waits until Richard reaches the elevator to look at Harry again, expectant. Harry sends a small smile her way.

- He must be getting here anytime now, mom.

Virginia nods as she sips on her black coffee. She ignores the notifications coming up on her phone and Harry feels appreciated.

\- He's getting stronger, isn't he? Proper... fit?

Harry laughs, so does Virginia.

\- I would hope so. He's a personal trainer, after all.

\- A cute one at that.

- Is this your way of telling me you and dad are getting a divorce?

Virginia doesn't blink.

\- And by the way, he's supposed to be making me stronger. Not getting stronger himself.

\- Well, Harry, it's not like the view isn't going to help.

\- So you want me to date my personal trainer.

\- I want you to have fun.

\- Me and Cat have fun all the time.

\- I also want to know if you're bringing someone to Gemma's.

\- Mom-

\- It's Michael, isn't it?

The interphone rings and it's a sound that comes from heaven. Harry had no idea where that conversation would take them. In less than two seconds, Rosa's voice fills the room - not too loud, never too loud, just adequate; polite - "Michael's here".

\- Have fun, sweetie.

Virginia says as she grabs her phone and stands up. Before heading upstairs to her bedroom, she kisses the top of Harry's head.

\- See you at dinner.

\- Bye, mom.

Harry finishes breakfast by himself and on his way to the front door, finds Cat in the middle of his morning nap, splayed out, sunlight hitting his warm belly. Harry softly runs a finger between his ears and meets Michael in the front of his house at exactly 8:00 am. Time for the first appointment of the day.

❥

Harry can still hear Rosa locking the front door behind him when he spots Michael, leaning into his light blue Corolla, one foot off the ground, staring into the distance through his sunglasses. He makes the exact same pose every morning, ever since Harry's parents hired him as Harry's personal trainer, and Harry's not sure if it's intentional or not. It's been going on for more than a year now and Harry finds it funny. "He's trying to seduce you with his model abilities", Louis complains about it like the whole thing is attractive and not just artificial. Harry's pretty sure Michael is straight and he's not even sure Michael does it on purpose to begin with. It's just... recurrent.

Michael's old car is filled with weights and disassembled gym equipment, even when today is a running day for Harry, and it gives Michael an almost professional aura to balance his young age. The car's color, light blue, matches the color of Michael's sunglasses' frame and it's too much for Harry, but seems perfect for Michael, just the right amount of effort a straight personal trainer with supposedly too many gay clients would put into the fashion world. "How do you even know they're gay?", Harry had once asked. "It's just the way they look at me, bro, you know what I mean". Harry can't help noticing Michael's cerulean watchband, but he doesn't roll his eyes.

Michael's dark hair is spiked up with too much gel, to the point where it doesn't move with the wind and from this distance, his most notable features are his very strong arms, popping out of his short-sleeved shirt, and the pimples that cover most of his cheeks and forehead. Harry doesn't exactly like him, but he's getting there.

Michael is only a couple of years older than Harry, but when he leans into his car like that, a car that he owns, about to do his job, a job that pays all his bills, Michael seems independent. Harry swallows down the jealousy that threatens to come out. Michael still hasn't seen Harry - "Of fucking course he did" - and starts scratching his beard, still looking into the horizon, still in the same pose. In Harry's mind, he looks like the guy who never bullied anyone during high school, but who never stopped bullying when it happened. Not a jerk, not a hero. Harry only ever sees him in his workout clothes, but he bets Michael wears too much cologne and upturned collar polo shirts. Still, he's a nice guy with Harry ("Really nice") and for the last couple of weeks, Harry's been trying to give him a chance.

A car honks in the distance, startling Michael and causing his foot to slip from the Corolla's door, hitting the asphalt hard. For the first time, ever since Harry's known him, Michael's morning pose is ruined. When Michael looks around, trying to spot the source of the noise, he sees Harry, finally. He then proceeds to take off his sunglasses - something for which Harry's sincerely grateful, since it allows him to take Michael at least a bit seriously - and greets Harry with his large smile.

\- There you are. Good morning, Harry! You look like a man ready to run 5 miles.

Harry smiles even when he knows that they won't be running that much today. Not that the distance is a real challenge for Michael and Harry's improving every week. It's just that Harry has other, secret, plans. Today is a day made for a 2 miles run. 2.5 at best, for what Harry can guess.

\- Hey, Michael.

Michael hasn't tried to shake Harry's hand for a while now, months even, something Harry appreciates, but he still smiles warmly at Harry as they begin their stretching routine, followed by a quick warm up.

\- Finally went to that place I told you about.

\- Oh, yeah? That fancy club?

\- That fancy club.

\- How was it, then?

Michael would never bring it up, way too discrete for that, but Harry knows Michael has seen Harry in some pretty dark places before. Looking at him now, though, Michael seems happy, genuinely happy, with the current state of Harry's mood. He acts like he cares and it means a lot. For a while now, Michael is constantly making jokes and he shares personal stories during their workouts and Harry suspects they interacted more in the last month than they did during the whole year Michael's been giving Harry classes.

Michael once shared the story about how he went to Canada to get a degree in Nutrition and Dietetics and how it only lasted a month. The cold weather by itself was enough reason for him to give it all up. "I need the sun, bro. Only penguins can survive up there". The more they talked, though, the more Harry was able to collect small details about Michael's life choices and one day Michael straight up confessed that he just couldn't leave his mother behind. "All alone, man, here by herself, just couldn't do it". Harry found it nice of him. Michael came back home and changed his degree to something that would make him and his mother more money, "especially with everyone caring so much about their bodies nowadays. No one wants to be fat". Again, Harry doesn't exactly like him, but he's getting there.

\- Worst club ever, man. You have no idea.

Harry laughs and they slowly start walking to the large, imponent, gate that separates Harry's house - and the houses of his few, privileged, neighbors - from the open street. As they reach the condo gate, they walk towards the pedestrian passage and Harry places his fingertip on the biometric reader. A green light flashes and the smaller gate unlocks. They're free. Michael stretches one last time, ready to start running their same usual path, when Harry interrupts him:

\- Uhm... Michael... Do you think we could go the other way today?

\- The other way?

\- Yeah, like... to the left now, instead of to the right.

\- Oh, you mean, towards the Park?

\- Yes, towards the Park.

\- Yeah, sure.

Harry already pressed play on his favorite running playlist when Michael speaks again. Harry presses pause.

\- What happened? Don't you wanna see the bridge today?

The comment throws Harry off guard because Michael can't possibly know anything about Harry's relationship to the Dragon Bridge, so where is this coming from? As if mistaking Harry's discomfort for curiosity, Michael adds:

\- Always catch you looking at it while we're running. Thought you're into its architecture or something.

And that's... that's way better. Harry hopes the relief doesn't appear too undeniably on his face. The bridge Michael's talking about is actually named King's Bridge, a tribute to the life of Martin Luther King Jr., and it was supposed to be a monument in honor of the fight against racism. Its architecture is quite unusual. "It's so terrible", was Chuck's first comment when the whole construction was done. The bridge has a red snake-like shape (supposed to represent the lifeline that unites all humans) and three large arches (supposed to represent God knows what; "It represents how high we can fly when we work together", according to Chuck). The point is that it looks like a winged snake and that's why Harry and Chuck named it the Dragon Bridge. If you try hard enough, it does look like a dragon. A dragon drawn by a 2-year-old child with ADHD who has never seen a dragon. It also barely works as a monument, since it was built only for political capital and for money laundry instead of aiming to raise funds for actual politics to deal with the urgent problem. It's the worst bridge ever made.

\- Yeah, actually no. Not today.

Michael shrugs.

\- Let's go, then.

Perfect. Harry presses play on his favorite playlist again and David Bowie's voice flows through his headphones: Let's Dance. Harry starts running.

❥

Every gust of wind reminds Harry of the sweat on his lower back and of the sweat on his forehead, making his bouncing curls disgustingly wet, and of the sweat everywhere on his body, but he doesn't feel tired at all. How could he, when he can already spot the white columns of the Northlake Park in the distance, its golden letters standing proudly in the middle of all the different types of trees?

Harry checks his watch only to be informed by the digital fireworks on the watch screen that they just completed a 3 miles run, which is a distance bigger than the one he promised himself they would. As he and Michael start getting closer and closer to the Park, more families and kids on bikes and couples on roller skates passing them by, Harry starts slowing down his rhythm. It takes Michael less than a minute to slow his rhythm down as well.

\- Hey, are you ok?

Michael is standing really close when he pats Harry on the back and Harry's ego is a bit hurt upon the realization that although Michael is just as sweaty as he is, Michael isn't as nearly as out of breath. It's ok, there are more important things to be dealt with right now. Harry's plan is officially in motion.

\- Yeah, yeah, I'm ok.

Harry says as he tries to rub the sweat off his forehead and Michael keeps looking at him with a kind expression, as if he thinks Harry is too tired to keep running but is too ashamed to admit it.

\- I actually just remembered that I'm supposed to meet a friend...

\- You mean now?!

Michael isn't as bothered by the idea as Harry thought he would be, but it's not yet the ideal reaction Harry was aiming for.

\- Yeah, sorry, now.

\- A friend?

Michael asks again as if to double-check whether this is really happening.

\- Yeah.

Harry waits and Michael says nothing. They just stand still, two sweaty statues staring at each other while standing in the middle of a fading running track, right next to the busyness of the Northlake Park on a beautiful Saturday morning. Michael looks at him for so long that Harry feels forced to add:

- It's a girl...

\- Oh.

Michael's whole posture changes and he visibly relaxes, smiling his big smile again, like he somehow believes Harry now.

\- You've got a date, then? That's good. That's really good.

And then, further studying the situation, Michael adds, as he eyes Harry up and down:

\- Gonna meet her all sweaty like that?

Harry didn't think that part through. Improvisation is key.

- I'm sure she won't mind.

Harry winks. Winks. Louis would mock him for it until the day he died.

\- Oh...

Michael seems almost proud now, like they are frat brothers talking about a pretty girl on campus, and the whole thing's quite funny.

\- Ok, bro, ok. Good for you.

Michael starts looking around and Harry doesn't understand what he's still waiting for, standing here and not leaving, and then Michael says:

\- And about our class today-

\- Oh, no.

Does Michael really think Harry would ask for a restitution?

\- No, we don't even have to tell anyone. It's almost over anyway.

It's not. They are barely halfway through the class, but Harry's answer seems to calm Michael down and he once again smiles at Harry.

\- Well, then, good date for you, man.

Michael doesn't shake Harry's hand but it's a close call. Harry smiles at him and waits until he's out of sight to turn around and begin his walk into the park.

Harry walks slowly, cooling it down from his run as he enjoys the morning breeze. The weather is warm, but the wind is fresh and it feels like the perfect combination. The Park is busy, filled with small families and there are children running while holding pink ice cream cones and couples hold hands lovingly as old ladies sit together and admire the view from one of the park benches. There are balloons of all colors reflecting in the early morning sunlight and there's laughter in the air mixed with a thousand different voices. It's an unexplainable homey atmosphere, calm while active, that Harry appreciates deeply. It makes him feel like a part of something bigger. In the park, he feels less alone.

When he reaches the first crossroads, he takes the left and after that, by the big apple tree, he takes the right. He steps on the noisiest leaves and takes a short while to admire the few clouds on the sky. It's a beautiful day and Harry knows his way around, knows exactly where he needs to go. The only time he interrupts his journey is when he's met with the perfect flower stand, a small colorful shop, whose vendor is called Daisy, something that made Harry laugh and then Daisy laughed as well. "It's your destiny", Harry told her as her cheeks turned pinker. Daisy, it turns out, is a kind elderly lady who dedicated her life to growing the most beautiful sunflowers Harry's ever seen. "Oh, now you're just being sweet, dear". She comes to the Park every weekend and never missed a day in the last 30 years. Daisy claims she is honoring the tradition she shared with her late husband. "This was his favorite place in the whole town; he even proposed to me by the big oak" she tells Harry excitedly, but with a sad smile on her face, and his heart aches for her. He doesn't tell her, but he thinks she sees it in his eyes anyway. He ends up buying five of the biggest sunflowers and Daisy makes him a bouquet, wrapping them up in burgundy paper with a white bow. It's perfect.

Sunflowers in hand, Harry is about to leave when Daisy hugs him and thanks him for the small conversation. She says it made her day better and Harry thinks she would be an amazing grandma. He promises he will come back and he knows he will. People that are in pain recognize each other, Harry thinks as he begins walking away, and they grow closer together. They make each other stronger.

Harry doesn't stop walking until he reaches the special part of the Park, furthest from its main entrance. There are less people around now and the air is calmer, still homey, sure, but private somehow. Harry sees the golden plate in which it reads "Sunset Gardens Cemetery" and, on a smaller font size, "Where rest those who will always be missed". Harry smiles. It's October 8th after all.

❥

There's really no difficulty in finding Chuck's grave. It stands proud in the distance, on the greenest lawn, sunlight all around it, framing it like a cloak made out of gold. It's a beautiful one, in Harry's opinion; if there even is such a thing as a beautiful grave. It's slightly bigger than the other ones around it, perfectly clean, made out of marble. Special, just like its owner. As Harry approaches it, he can see the single rose he brought the last time he was here - last week, he guesses - and a bigger bouquet, a beautiful one, probably his mother's. Harry smiles as he kneels down. He runs his fingertips tenderly through the stone's golden inscription, "Charles Edward Birk", and holds back his tears. It's ok. He places his sunflower bouquet right next to the lonely rose as he murmurs:

\- Hey, Muffin. Happy birthday.

It's supposed to be a happy morning. There's no one but Harry here, not in the fancy part of the Sunset Gardens where Chuck now stays, but he wouldn't do anything different if there was. It doesn't matter whether he's alone or not, it's been a while since Harry cared for what other people think. It's not only better this way, but it also what Chuck deserves. It's what Harry needs. It's not the first of Chuck's birthdays that he spent here. He lays down right next to Chuck's grave, in a way that reminds him of how they used to lay down when they went stargazing, and just starts talking. Out loud.

- 50 years, then, yeah? Who would have thought? Almost a grownup now... Time to become an adult... Real responsibilities...

Harry chuckles by himself.

\- I see my mom already stopped by to make her wishes and Chuck, if she asked you to be better-behaved like she did that one time, "a real example" she said, right?, you need to ignore it, yeah? You're a free spirit now. Always was, I mean. But now you're a star.

In the sky, Harry spots a heart-shaped cloud. He smiles.

\- By the way, I can never decide whether to think of you as a star or as the ocean. I need to know. It's extremely important, you need to send me a hint on that one, yeah? It would make my metaphors way easier in my mind.

Harry stays silent for a while. The wind blows slowly.

- I thought it would never get better, you know. And it hasn't, but in the last month it wasn't so terrible to live, it's just that... I'm not as alone as I used to be, I guess, but I still miss you so much. So much, Chuck. So, so much.

Harry blinks tears away from his eyelashes and the tears tickle his face on their way to the ground and it feels like a gentle touch.

\- And I want you to rest in peace, I do, I just don't know if I can rest through life without you. I don't even think you want to rest anywhere, anyway, I think you want to dance and laugh and I wish you are. Dancing, I mean, laughing. I wish you are being you, wherever you are now. I wish you're free. I really wish you are free, Chuck.

Harry closes his eyes and he can feel it getting more and more windy around him. Maybe Chuck's answering him, Harry thinks stupidly.

- I told you this once already, while you were still here. Still here with me.

Harry's eyes are tightly closed, like what he's saying is painful, and it is, but he's pretty sure he can feel dry leaves flying everywhere, he can hear it, as if the weather changed dramatically since he got here and it would be fair if it did. It would be appropriate. Wishing a dead-Chuck happy birthday makes Harry feel like he has a hurricane in his heart after all, like he's surrounded by dry dead flying leaves that won't stop spinning.

\- I'm gonna say it again and it will probably upset you, so I'm sorry in advance, but there are days I just wished you had taken me with you. I know you know that. Sometimes I just don't want to exist anymore, Chuck, and it hurts so bad, it hurts so bad when I'm here all alone and-

Someone coughs.

Someone coughs and time stops.

Harry stays paralyzed.

Someone coughs, standing really close to Harry's feet, too close, and the wind blows cold and Harry shivers, but he knows. He just knows. He tries to stop his crying before opening his eyes and sitting up, but his vision is still blurry when he sees him.

\- That's enough sadness for the day, Harold.

Louis stands with his legs spread and his arms crossed, looking at Harry with a worried expression. His eyes show a mix of concern, apprehension and fear. He's tense. He's the most beautiful boy Harry has ever seen. His piercing blue eyes turn to Chuck's grave then and he waves his hand shily, keeping a serious expression.

- Hey, Chuck. I'm here to take him home.

And then, as if remembering something:

\- Oh! And happy birthday! Cheers, mate.

Harry smiles. Louis almost does. He looks golden. Harry's golden boy.

Harry has to ask.

\- What is a pretty boy like you doing in a sad place like this?

Harry's voice is still too affected by his crying, but Louis doesn't seem to care. He seems bothered by the use of the word "sad", though, and it seems like he was going to complain about it, but decided against it.

\- I told you. I'm taking you home.

\- How-

Harry's not proud of the way his running nose interrupts his sentence and he's about to clean it on his already-dirty shirt when Louis kneels down in front of him and cleans it himself. Louis' eyebrows are still furrowed and Harry's ashamed and Louis is perfect.

\- How did you know I was here?

Louis rolls his eyes. It warms the coldest place of Harry's heart. It's familiar. It's Harry's.

\- You ask such stupid questions sometimes.

Harry smiles.

- Nice bouquet there, by the way, sunflower.

\- You liked it?

Harry doesn't try to disguise the wonder in his eyes. He'll have to get Louis a sunflower bouquet soon. See, he promised Daisy he would come back. He always honors his word.

Louis only nods, still half serious, but he extends his hand to help Harry up.

\- So, you're taking me home.

\- Unless you want Michael to, yes, Harold, I am.

Harry thinks that the time it takes for him to recall who Michael even is should be the biggest proof of how tight Louis has got him wrapped around his finger. When he looks at Louis, he is smiling.

- I don't like Michael.

\- You're trying to, though.

- Yeah, but I don't, though.

Louis rolls his eyes again.

They stare at each other for a little while, taking each other in, until Louis turns his head to smile at Chuck's grave. It means the world to Harry. Shily, Louis waves his hand again and looks at Harry. He waits for Harry's small " Bye, Muffin" to start pulling Harry back to the entrance of the Sunset Gardens. Holding Louis' hand, Harry never felt less alone. Things start making sense again. They still haven't left the Gardens when Louis speaks up.

\- You don't have to choose between the ocean and the stars, you know that, right?

Harry looks at Louis surprised, not entirely sure if he's talking about what Harry thinks he is talking about. Louis is, though. He always is.

\- He can be in both of them. He's part of everything now, he's all around the universe.

Louis tilts his head towards the sky and Harry's fascinated by every word coming out of his mouth.

\- He's part of every single thing you love.

Harry thinks "Then he's a part of you", but doesn't speak his thought out loud. Instead, in silence, he thanks Louis and squeezes his hand and when the boy smiles back at him, the crinkles by his eyes hypnotize Harry. He wants to kiss them slowly, just to make sure they do taste like the happiness they make Harry feel in his chest. Exploding. They make Harry feel safe, as if someone's looking after him. It's not the first time he thought of Louis as his guardian angel. Harry can't tell if the Northlake Park is still as busy as it was when he first got here because he can't see anything else but Louis. Harry doesn't even try.

\- I'm supposed to have lunch with Rosa now.

What Harry wants to say is "Do you want to have lunch with me?".

\- I know.

\- And then...

\- Therapy.

\- Yeah.

- I know.

Harry's about to invite Louis when he asks:

- No music lesson?

\- No, not today.

- Why?

\- Professor's sick.

\- Oh, poor Mr. Morrison.

Louis is getting them off topic.

\- Yeah.

Harry's pouting, he's aware.

\- What?

\- Still...

\- Still what?

\- It's Saturday.

- Yeah, it's Saturday, curly.

\- It's fucking Saturday. I should have more free time.

Harry should have more free time so that he could have a long lunch with Louis, take a great nap afterwards, maybe homemade dinner by night; spending all the time in the universe with him until time no longer makes sense. It would be paradise. Louis balances him. That's the best way of putting it. Maybe Harry's also a tightrope walker, just like his mom; the difference is that he got Louis on the ground, his own north star, holding both of his hands. It's a nice thought to have. Louis holds Harry's hand tighter when he speaks next.

\- You should have more free time.

And then, in a lower voice:

\- We can try to think of how you can talk to your mom about that, yeah? I don't think she would be too opposed to changing your routine, relaxing it a bit.

Louis looks at Harry out of the corner of his eye.

- It's fucking Saturday, for God's sake.

Louis curses so loud that Harry has to look around, ready to apologize, but no one is looking at them. Everyone just keeps doing their thing as if anything's allowed. They are part of something bigger. Harry is smiling by the time they leave the Northlake Park and Louis' hand is still on his and the breeze is fresh but the sunshine is warm and it's the perfect combination and the whole world seems easier than it did not too long ago. The world seems theirs.

❥

\- So, I hear you now figured out how to ditch your bodyguard, Styles? You're a proper menace.

\- Michael's not my bodyguard.

- You're an escape master. Mission "Disappear from pimpled Max Steel's sight" completed. Congratulations, Agent Bambi.

Harry squeals.

\- Pimpled Max Steel, you're so mean.

\- He's too handsy for his own good, that's what he is. I'm actually glad you escaped from him.

Harry takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the ping of something else in his belly that explodes whenever Louis uses this tone, a tone he reserves only for someone he's clearly jealous of. He's jealous of Michael, right? He is, Harry's pretty sure.

\- I didn't exactly escape.

\- Yes, you did. I love me some danger, you know? In case you're wondering... Dangerous escapes, dangerous adventures, dangerous boys...

Louis wiggles his eyebrows at him and it's ridiculous, but all Harry can think of is how Louis is the prettiest in the morning. Sunkissed skin, laughter like a breeze. It's a privilege to walk by his side, especially when he still hasn't let go of Harry's hand. Their fingers are getting sweaty, all tangled up in each other, and still there's nowhere else Harry would rather be. The sunlight gives a slight blonde shade to the end of Louis' hair and he looks like a small surfer, made for the warm weather.

\- I told him I had to meet a friend.

\- You told him you had to meet a friend?

Louis raises one eyebrow while still looking straight ahead. They've been walking slowly for the past twenty minutes, taking their time getting to Harry's house. They both know that Louis never stays when the house isn't empty so they are now stalling, taking their sweet time in their walk, savouring the minutes that are left, sharing them together.

Harry winces in advance, predicting Louis' reaction, before speaking his next sentence:

- I told him I was meeting a girl.

Louis turns his head around, a shocked expression on his face.

- You told him you were meeting a girl...

- Yeah, as if it was a date, you know?

Louis stops walking.

\- What?

Harry stops walking as well, then, doesn't seem to have an option.

\- You told him you had a date with a girl.

- Yeah... I was-

- Why?

\- I mean-

\- Why a girl?

- Louis, I just-

\- Why couldn't you have told him you were meeting ME?

Harry just stands still, trying not to let the way Louis' hair dances in the wind distract him from the angry tone of Louis' voice. It's hard, but Harry's getting scolded, he knows, and if Louis catches him distracted - it doesn't matter if Harry's being distracted by Louis' beauty and Louis' beauty only - things are only going to get worse. So, Harry concentrates. Concentrates and stands still.

\- Too absurd of an idea for you to think of, you tosser?

Louis' voice raises to an almost shrill level, but no one else but Harry seems to be paying him any mind. As they both stand still, staring at each other, people keep walking by, passing all around them, sometimes giving Harry a small smile or a short nod, but completely ignoring Louis. No exception. Harry suspects that it's Louis' angry expression that keeps everyone away. Not only his expression, but his tone. His really angry tone. Harry realizes now that Louis' hands are shaking slightly.

\- As a date? \- Is what Harry chooses to answer and when Louis speaks next, he sounds even more exasperated than before, raising his eyebrows even higher and opening his arms.

- Well, it could be.

Louis almost shouts and instead of waiting for Harry's answer like a normal person, he starts walking. Fast. Almost power walking and it's ridiculous the way Harry has to jog for a while to reach him. When he eventually does, he asks:

\- What do you mean "it could be"?

Louis shoots daggers at him through his eyes.

\- You know exactly what I mean.

Now, his voice is low and it sounds even more dangerous than before.

\- You mean it could be a date, like, you and me?

Louis rolls his eyes instead of answering and just keeps walking, faster by the second. Harry simply walks by his side, determined to keep the same fast pace, and no one speaks for almost five minutes. People pass them by on the crosswalk and just like before, Louis' countenance is so irritated, staring straight ahead, that no one seems to acknowledge him. The ones that do look their way, only give Harry a "good morning" and keep walking. They are almost reaching Harry's condo gate when Harry decides he had enough and grabs Louis' hand. Louis shakes his arm, trying to force Harry to let him go, because he's childish like that, but Harry doesn't, he only squeezes Louis' hand harder.

\- Louis.

Louis shakes his arm harder.

\- Louis.

Nothing changes. Louis still refuses to look Harry in the eyes, staring straight at the floor and Harry decides it's time to take extreme measures and quickly manages to hold both of Louis' arms, one in each of Harry's hands. Louis is now forced to look at Harry, perfect, and his expression is all indignation.

\- What?!

Louis shouts but it's ok, Harry knows how to handle him.

Harry smiles even when he feels slightly nervous due to the question he's about to ask. It feels like it's been a long time coming, anyway, and it feels right, more than anything. It's a question that tastes like the only right thing to be said right now, restoring order into their universe.

\- Do you wanna go on a date with me tomorrow?

It takes five seconds for Louis' expression to transform into a smile, it's a slow, beautiful process; like watching the sunrise. Louis' smile is cocky and sure, like this is where he thought this was heading all along. Maybe he did know, Harry doesn't mind either way.

- Maybe.

\- Maybe...

Louis' smile grows.

\- Maybe.

Harry holds him close for a moment longer before letting go of his arms. Louis pats his shirt, as if cleaning himself from Harry - which is such an absurd, offensive idea; Harry wants to get him dirty all over - and starts walking again. Slower this time. Harry follows and when Louis eventually grabs his hand, Harry's almost not surprised.

When they catch sight of Harry's condo, Louis starts to slow down, staying a step behind until they reach the gate. Harry knows where this is going, but he asks anyway, always hopeful.

- Don't you wanna stay?

Louis lets go of his hand and Harry's already cold.

\- Don't think it's a good idea, curly. Not sure if Rosa would like that.

Louis does this thing sometimes, where he gives these small excuses that don't exactly make sense. Harry hates it, but he lets him get away with it. From beyond the gate, Harry can see the nosy doorman staring at him as they gossip with each other and Harry wants nothing more than to protect Louis from their prying eyes, but before he gets the chance, Louis is jumping at him, hugging him with both arms around his neck. Harry immediately forgets about the doorman. Taking a deep breath, Harry smells the lemon from Louis shampoo and the vanilla from his skin. It calms him down. It's perfect.

- I'll see you later, ok?

Obviously, it's ok. It's more than ok. Harry hugs him tighter for longer than it's probably appropriate, but he doesn't care. Louis doesn't seem to mind as well. Before Louis lets go, though, Harry has to ask him one more thing. Just to make sure he wasn't dreaming before.

\- So, tomorrow, should I pick you up-

- I know where to find you, curly.

\- Yeah?

Harry's smile is shining as Louis nods.

- Always. Whenever you want.

Harry just stares at him, dumbly. He just wants Louis all the time. He can't really help it. Louis' way too pretty, especially when he smiles like he can read all of Harry's thoughts. He wants him all the time.

\- Are you going to be taking me from one appointment to another, then?

\- Hey, isn't that what we do on Saturdays?

They give each other silent, silly smiles.

\- Now go. Rosa's waiting for you. I'll see you after lunch, yeah?

Harry only nods.

\- Bye, Agent Bambi.

Harry turns around slowly, trying to find excuses that will make Louis stay just for a moment longer, and places his fingertip on the biometric reader. Before the green light flashes, Louis has already disappeared.

❥

As soon as Harry gets one feet inside his house, Cat comes running, greeting him by the door. His tiny claws hit the marble floor in a fast-paced rhythm and it reminds Harry of the sound of castanets. Louis would call Cat a "cat-anet", Harry thinks with a smile. Cat looks sleep-rumpled but happy to see his owner as he meows loudly, announcing Harry's arrival. Rosa must already be aware that Harry's home, then. Cat's grey fur and whiskers keep tickling Harry's shins, above his socks, as he entwines himself between Harry's legs. When Harry picks him up to avoid further trouble - and to be able to walk without stepping into a soft and angry purring machine - Cat starts biting Harry's thumb playfully, just to remind Harry that he can. Harry allows him.

They go straight to Harry's room and don't meet Rosa on their way there. Lift, little shake, and as soon as they arrive, Harry closes his door, since he can't lock it anyway, and places Cat on his bedroom floor. Cat has the courtesy of waiting two seconds, waiting until Harry turns around, to gracefully jump onto Harry's bed and go straight for the fluffy pillow, claiming it as its own. It makes a scene too cute to disturb and Harry decides to let Cat have his fun, even if he'll probably regret this decision during his midnight sneeze sessions. It's worth it for the way Cat stretches one last time before slowly blinking his eyes closed.

Harry heads to the bathroom and gets his shower water in the perfect temperature. From there, it's a mess of tangerine shampoo and gardenia body wash and bubbles and soapy hair. As the fresh water hits Harry's back, washing away sweat and tears, Harry can feel himself relaxing, breathing in and out. Present and connected to reality in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. The water droplets cling to his eyelashes as he closes his eyes and takes it all in. He stays in the shower until the feeling goes away.

Now fresh out of the shower, Harry goes for comfortable clothes - consciously ignoring the different fancy suits hanging in his closet, wrapped up in their fancy plastic bags, from which he is supposed to choose one for Gemma's third engagement party; third engagement party for God's sake - and packs a bag for the rest of the day. The bag includes everything he may need while out of the house, including his Bukowski, obviously.

As soon as he reaches the first floor, he can feel the delicious smell from Rosa's cooking and it's only after he sits at the living room's table that he actually sees Rosa, quietly bringing him his food with a polite yet concerned smile on her face. Steak and salad, perfect. Rosa goes into the kitchen right after setting the table and Harry's lonely lunch is accompanied by nothing else than Bukowski's words. "I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of", Harry reads.

When Rosa reappears, it's only to bring Harry a black square saucer and as she hands it to Harry, he wishes he was closer to a toilet. He's sure he could score some fake basketball points right now. The champion of his own life choices. Harry is still staring at the three perfectly aligned pills when he realizes that Rosa isn't going anywhere. She is looking at him with more concern than usual, eyebrows furrowed and no trace of her polite smile, and it makes something cold slide through Harry's spine, getting him to wonder if he does need her concern, if it's a well deserved wariness because she sees something that he can't, that he won't. He can't help how much he sounds like his mother, Chuck would hate it, when he says:

\- Rosa, is there anything else you need?

She startles, which only makes him feel guilty. She then apologizes, which is even worse, and heads to the kitchen. Harry rolls the pills in a napkin and hides it (he likes to think he isn't hiding, just misplacing it temporarily, but he knows the truth) in his front pocket. He doesn't think of it again and by the time he's finishing his lunch, he might as well have forgotten about the small piece of cloth surrounding his fears and obligations. He chooses to focus on happy memories, just like Chuck taught him to and he breathes in slowly, just like Louis taught him to. Harry concentrates on homey thoughts. Intimate and pleasant. He thinks of Chuck and he thinks of Louis and he must have a smile on his face because when Rosa re-enters the living room, Harry's eyes are closed and the first thing she says is:

\- You look happy, Mr. Styles. Is today a special day?

Harry thinks about how every day has been special for a while. He smiles.

- If we want it to be, Rosa, it can be.

She tries to contain the caution in her eyes - as if the answer she got wasn't the one she was coming for, but she will take it anyway - and Harry appreciates it. It's a respectful gesture, Harry knows. A professional one. Still, it sits warm in his belly.

\- The reason I'm asking is because I made a small cake. To celebrate... Well, to celebrate today.

For a couple of seconds, they share a look that is the closest to a partnership, the closest to understanding, that they will ever get. It's as beautiful as it is fleeting.

\- It's chocolate. Your favorite.

Rosa brings him a cupcake with a single candle and Harry never felt guiltier for having called her a polite ghost earlier. Rosa is a lovely, lovely ghost.

\- Thank you so much, Rosa. You didn't have to.

Harry thinks it's the first time her smile shows affection and not politeness. Holding a dark brown cupcake with a single lighted candle, standing in a too big living room, in too formal uniforms, Rosa looks tired but she looks human.

\- Well, Mr. Styles, we all loved Chuck very much.

As Harry wonders how Chuck got the privilege of being addressed on a first name basis, Rosa leaves. Harry grabs the cupcake and can't help but murmuring to himself, really lowly: "guess it's your lucky day, Chuck. A cupcake for a Muffin". Harry smiles alone. "Happy birthday again. I miss you". Harry eats it by himself and it tastes perfect. Chuck would love it.

Rosa appears yet one more time, while he's getting his face all dirty with the cupcake.

\- Do you need me to call Carl, Mr. Styles?

Carl Grizoni is a big italian man with a hooked nose and a hoarse voice who used to work for Harry's family as a driver. Now, without Gemma in the house and with Harry's particular routine, it became an informal contract. A driver for hire. Carl offers driving services when he is needed, some eventual rides. The fact that there isn't someone sitting in a stool in Harry's garage all day long, all by himself, waiting for any of the members of the Styles' family to eventually have somewhere to go actually gives some tranquility to Harry's mind.

Harry hasn't seen Carl for a while now and what he remembers the most is how Carl's strong hands would hold the car's wheel as if it were about to break and the honks and the constant smell of tobacco. Richard and Virginia seemed to like him either way. "An honest guy, Harry", Richard once said.

Carl wasn't particularly nice with Harry and Harry may have heard him muttering once about how "too delicate" Harry was. Harry understood the euphemism. When they were younger, Gemma would say that Carl was part of the italian mob and had the secret mission of kidnapping Harry. "He's going to use your hair as a wig for his bald head", she would say and thinking about the way his curls would look on Carl's greasy forehead used to keep Harry up at night more times than he cares to remember. Those weren't the only reasons that made Harry always choose to ride with Chuck, bicycle or car. And Chuck, the eternal best uncle, found pleasure in taking Harry everywhere, all the time. "It makes me feel useful". He would say that Harry's company was a privilege he was lucky enough to enjoy, even if it was between school and extra classes and doctors appointments. Before Louis, Harry can't remember the last time someone made him feel this appreciated. Chuck's flexible work hours, managing charity funds for causes he believed in, made his routine free enough and he used to adapt it to Harry's needs.

Gemma, on the other hand, especially during her teenage years, used Carl's services every other night. She used to call him her getaway driver and they approached the friendship area in their professional relationship. Harry knows that Carl had fun through Gemma's parties and late-night arrivals. He used to cover up for her. Harry wonders if that's the reason why Carl always seemed so frustrated with him: Harry never did anything wrong. Nothing that he would tell Carl, anyway. Harry was always following the schedule, careful and gentle. His only emergency drives were to the hospital due to a fall or due to him hurting himself somehow or... the other thing. He and Gemma's night outs were spent in different ways, shockingly contrasting.

\- No, no, Rosa. Thank you. I'll take the bike.

"Chuck's bike", Harry thinks but doesn't say.

After Chuck left, Harry used to be ashamed of the bicycle. He felt like it made him seem even more alone than he really was, if that was even possible. It felt like he, a lonely kid, all by himself in his two-seater bike, was playing a funny character, interpreting his own life, his own tragedy, mocking his own pain. He now loves it. Deeply. Not only does it give him his cherished freedom, so limited and so precious, but also Louis fits perfectly in the back seat.

\- No problem, Mr. Styles. I'll head up to the office, then. Do you need anything else?

Harry is about to give her his automatic answer of "no, of course not, Rosa, I don't wanna disturb you" when he thinks better of it.

\- Rosa, do we have strawberries?

She seems happy that he actually asked her for something, as if she also does appreciate feeling useful herself.

\- Yes, we do. They're really sweet. Do you want me to cut a few for you and bring them here?

\- No, no way. I got this, Rosa.

Her polite smile is back, warmer than before and Harry likes it.

- Fridge?

\- Fridge, Mr. Styles.

As Rosa heads to the office, Harry goes to the fridge. He doesn't think while he selects only the juiciest ones and places them on a small food jar he found in the kitchen cabinet. The tiny glass jar has a red ribbon surrounding its opening, a small cute bow on it, and it makes Harry smile when its color matches the strawberry's one. It's a beautiful jar, something a kid would use to store their cookies. Harry closes the jar's lid and sees that his work was perfect, the cold strawberries look appetizing against the clear glass and even when Louis didn't exactly mention when they were going to meet next, it's always a good idea to be prepared.

Harry leaves the kitchen with the small jar in his hand, grabs his book that sits by the living room's table and places them both - jar and book - into his bag. He shouts his goodbyes to Rosa, thanking her for the lunch. He doesn't thank for the cupcake, but he knows she understands, and he thinks he may hear a "Goodbye, Mr. Styles" in the distance.

Harry opens his front door as he scratches Cat's head, like he does every time before leaving his house, and Cat purrs while keeping a trace of distaste in his expression. Harry finds it cute.

Harry's locking the door when he turns his head to the side and finds Louis, eyes-closed, standing still in what must be a mocking imitation of Michael's morning pose. Harry hopes he someday understands how his own pose is so much better. Someday, he will. Louis is clearly trying not to laugh and Harry feels the urge to go back inside and lock the door, leaving him there, mocking Michael by himself. Harry won't do it, Louis would kill him, but it's a funny thought. Instead, Harry says:

\- Oh, so that whole talk about the personal trainer upgrade was real?

Louis only raises one eyebrow; doesn't open his eyes, doesn't move.

- I'm sorry, but I need to know if this is something I can afford. They said I recently became a platinum client, is this what this means?

Louis' smile is almost imperceptible and Harry does his best to approach him without him noticing it.

\- Angels teaching me how to exercise?

Harry's hands are almost touching Louis' waist when Louis opens his eyes suddenly, two supernovas announcing the aurora in the middle of an afternoon, and he starts to slap away Harry's hands and puts three feet of distance between them. Harry hates it.

\- I'm gonna teach you how to stop being handsy with your new personal trainer! Trying to sweet-talk me... What an absurd, Harold! I'm gonna make sure they revoke your platinum status.

\- NO!

\- YES!

Harry feels stupid. He feels happy.

\- You'll be client level Stupid.

- My level will be Stupid?

\- Yeah. Or Bambi. Same thing.

Harry acts absolutely scandalized.

\- Louis! It's not the same thing!

\- Yes, it is.

Louis still has the courage to add, under his breath, but not low enough that Harry can't hear him:

\- Stupid Bambi.

Louis already started to walk away, getting closer to the condo's gate.

\- You know, I need to take my bike because the place where I am heading isn't that close. But I don't know where you're heading, so... I think it must be close since you'll be walking, right? On your foot all the way there...

Louis stops walking and turns around slowly, looking at Harry like he hates him. Harry knows better than to believe him.

\- Now, of course, if you're interested, I could give you a ride.

Louis furrows his eyebrows further.

- All you have to do is say that I'm a platinum client.

\- No.

- Your only client.

\- Exclusive now, are we?

Harry doesn't blush.

- Just say Bambi and Stupid does not mean the same thing, Louis.

\- Why would I lie?

\- Louis.

\- Okay. I'll tell you the truth, then. Bambi is actually a worse version of Stupid, because it smells worse and- AAAH!

Harry chases Louis because Louis is insufferable and because he won't shut up and Louis squeals and runs faster and never admits that Bambi and Stupid aren't the same thing and it takes way longer for them to get in the bike then it should. By the time they do, they are slightly sweaty with messed up hair and red cheeks and big smiles on their faces. The whole thing is worth it for the way Louis keeps tangling Harry's hair in his fingers while murmuring "cute, cute Bambi boy". Louis doesn't stop until they arrive at their destination. It's the best bike ride Harry's had in a long time.

❥

Their ride to the psychiatrist's clinic is relatively quick, considering the distance. Along the way, Louis holds onto Harry's back like a small koala as they share a comfortable silence and enjoy the light breeze. The wind takes Harry's hair for a spin, a slow dance, and the smell of tangerines surround them both. They travel in a quiet and peaceful bubble of happiness, crossing mostly empty streets and admiring unique houses, with bold choices of paint colors, and before they know it, they have arrived at Dr. Mills's clinic.

The baronial style of the building, standing alone in an extensive and sunny garden, doesn't match its interior. Harry's well aware of that. On the outside, it looks formidably fancy and somewhat inviting, a high standard clinic, making Harry a little less dreadful of these routine visits. Inside, though, the clinic looks like a smaller hospital, white and cold, with almost no furniture and completely impersonal. Louis says nothing as they enter the building, but Harry can see the way his eyebrows raise a little when he is met with the sterile atmosphere of the place. Good, Louis sees it too. It gives Harry some comfort to know that Louis also sees the way this place looks like it was built exclusively for sick people, a deposit for illness, where it can be abandoned, with no touch or care. Objectively, Harry knows that's what it was built for, sick people, he means; it's a mental health clinic after all, but Harry can't really explain how sometimes he feels sicker when he gets here. Frailer. Less healthy. It's like his mind begins to match the environment. Morphs into a worse version of itself. _Healthy people don't come here_ , Harry's mind softly whispers to him. It's nothing more than a suggestion, tempting and corrosive, but in the same second that the thought appears, Louis holds Harry's hand and turns his head to look at him, eyes full of concern.

They are the only ones here, with the exception of the blonde receptionist and Harry, not wanting to alarm Louis in any way, silently tilts his head to the small line of waiting chairs on the left side of the room and lets go of Louis' hand. It takes a second longer than it should for Louis to start moving. He eyes Harry fixedly before leaving, eyebrows furrowed, testing whether Harry will be fine on his own, making sure Harry's really ok before leaving. It's not the first time Louis made Harry feel this way, safe and loved, but it still tastes wonderfully, in the same way as it did back then. After finishing his delicate analysis of Harry's state of mind, Louis puffs out a resigned breath and heads for the waiting chairs in a visible bad mood. He gets irritated when Harry feels weak, it's a reaction that always happens. Instead of following him, Harry goes to his right, heading for the receptionist's table.

The blonde receptionist, Emma, for what Harry can read on her name tag, tries to disguise her previously worried expression as nothing but professional interest in a patient she hasn't seen before, at least Harry doesn't think she has, and the courtesy immediately reminds him of Rosa.

\- Hello, good afternoon. How may I help you?

\- Hi.

Harry turns around to look at Louis and finds him already looking at Harry. Emma's eyes haven't left Harry's face from the moment he approached her desk.

- I have an appointment with Dr. Mills. At 3:30, I think.

\- Oh, you must be Harry Styles, yeah?

Harry nods.

\- Perfect. Dr. Mills will see you soon. Would you like some coffee or water?

Harry once again turns around to ask Louis if he would like some of the offered options, not that Harry thinks he would but there's no harm in asking, but finds Louis already shaking his head a strong no. Ok, then. When he turns to look at Emma again she's looking at him curiously again and Harry finds it slightly disrespectful. Shouldn't receptionists on clinics like this one make sure to keep the patient comfortable? Maybe that's why Louis is slightly more upset than usual, he hates when Harry gets uncomfortable.

\- No, nothing, thank you.

Harry doesn't wait for her answer as he heads for the waiting chairs. He plops down right next to Louis, touching forearms with him. As soon as he does, Louis lays his head on Harry's shoulder and Louis' hair tickles Harry's nose and the world doesn't seem so terrible anymore. Louis' voice comes as just another universe gift that Harry keeps getting the pleasure of unwrapping. It's nothing more than a whisper, but it seems like the loudest melody Harry has ever heard. It's all encompassing. It's lovely.

\- So, which room is it?

- Second door over there.

\- On the right?

\- Yeah.

\- The greyish one?

Harry can feel the smile on Louis' voice, even when he doesn't understand why it's there.

- Why...?

- It has a small window.

\- It's called a glass insert.

- It's a small window.

Harry decides not to argue.

- Yeah, it does. So what?

-So, I'll watch you.

\- No, you won't.

\- Try and stop me.

\- Are you even sure you can reach it?

Louis kicks Harry's shin and while he tries not to react, he catches sight of Emma, now openly paying attention to them. Harry looks at Louis, who only tilts his head back to Emma. Catching sight of her again, Harry hears her muttering an anxious "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" as she lowers her head. Harry looks at Louis again, searching for an explanation and Louis only shrugs. Emma doesn't look their way after that.

It doesn't take long for Harry's name to be called. Before standing up, Harry grabs his bag and opens it, searching for the small strawberries jar. When he does find it, he hands it firmly to Louis, without saying a word, hoping that only his determined eyes, solid and intense, can send the message that Louis must eat it. Louis seems to respect the new silence rule set by Harry and only rolls his eyes, but holds the jar anyway and that's all Harry wanted. He then stands up, turns around once, only to wink at Louis, who's keeping an annoyed face mostly due to the strawberries, and heads for the private room behind the greyish door. It's time for his psychiatrist evaluation.

❥

Dr. Mills wears his glasses on the tip of his pointy nose and his white hair seems appropriate for his age and experience. His long and thin fingers enlace Harry's hand when he greets Harry by his office door and the height difference between them is always slightly intimidating for Harry. The only time Chuck ever saw Dr. Mills, he described him as a very competent-looking, modern and hairy nosferatu. Harry didn't laugh back then. He can never find anything related to the topic of his mental health even the slightest bit funny. It isn't a sweet memory to remember, except for the way Chuck had giggled at his own comparison. They watched Van Helsing that night. Ok, it's an almost-sweet memory, Harry can admit that.

Despite his villain-like looks, straight out of a bad horror movie, Dr. Mills is usually calm, almost kind sometimes, and remarkably patient. He looks extremely intelligent, not only psychiatrist-intelligent but really life-intelligent, and during Harry's visits, he tries his best to be terribly cordial. Harry hates having to talk to him.

-So. Harry.

Harry takes a deep breath.

\- I recall how much you dislike the usual protocol for conversation starters. "Superficial", I believed you once called it.

Harry barely nods, but it's enough for Dr. Mills to continue.

\- So, let's go straight into the point, ok?

This time, he waits for Harry's confirmation.

\- How are things?

\- Everything's fine... Everything's good. Yeah.

Harry wonders if he somehow sounds more insecure in this particular session that he has sounded before, considering that now he has something to hide. The folded napkin - and the three pills it hides - sits heavily on his front pocket and if Harry tries hard enough, he can almost feel it digging into the skin of his thigh, burning with the weight of doing something forbidden, something you know you shouldn't. The weight of breaking the rules.

\- Your routine for the day now. How is it looking?

\- There's only one more place I was supposed to go, my musical lesson.

Dr. Mills nods like this is exactly what he thought Harry would say and Harry wonders about the possibility of Dr. Mills having a well-detailed schedule of Harry's routine, weekly, monthly, yearly, hidden somewhere on his drawers. It isn't such an absurd possibility as it sounds. Harry knows his own parents, they would go way further than handing out schedules for psychiatrists.

- But it was canceled because my professor is sick.

\- Oh, that's a shame.

Dr. Mills writes the information down on his small notebook as if it were vital. Harry doesn't understand how a music instructor's flu could be this important. By the look of surprise on Dr. Mills' face, someone may be led to believe that he cares about Mr. Morrison's health, that they are close, old friends. Harry wonders if that's a requirement for following a psychiatric career: knowing how to display genuine emotion without caring a bit about the story you're listening to. With abilities like that, Dr. Mills should follow an acting career, in Harry's opinion. TV shows or movie theaters; maybe the leading role in Dracula...

\- Are you still writing your lyrics?

\- Yes. They aren't lyrics yet, though.

He writes Harry's answer down again.

\- That's a good thing, Harry. It's a good way to express yourself and let some emotions flow. I'd love to see them someday, if that would be ok with you.

Harry only shrugs. He doesn't want to sound difficult nor rude, especially not when Dr. Mills tries so hard to be such a polite doctor and keep a light atmosphere, but this is the best Harry can do. A shrug. Harry won't ever show his poems/lyrics to Dr. Mills, they both know it, but they can pretend until the session is over. They're good actors, after all.

\- How about your mood?

\- It's ok.

Harry thinks better of it and changes his answer.

- It's better, I think.

\- Yes, I see you're smiling more and exhaling a healthier glow. I'm glad to hear it.

Again, looking extremely interested, Dr. Mills writes down every single word exchanged by them.

\- Any changes in your weight?

- No.

\- Are your parents good? Everything ok?

\- Everything's the same.

\- Ok, ok. Is there anything bothering you lately?

Harry figures that the quicker they pass through the usual round of questions, the quicker he will be out of here and he's well aware that honesty is the only way to go if he ever wants to be free again.

\- Today's Chuck's birthday, so death is bothering me.

\- Yes. Your mom mentioned. And did you manage to perform any sort of ritual to get through this painful date, as we once discussed?

\- Yes.

\- Did you follow that same method we talked about, as if you were kind of venting to him? The way you were doing before our sessions started?

\- Yes, I did.

\- Did it work?

Again, Harry takes a deep breath.

\- Did it help a little, Harry?

\- I actually began to go down a bad road on my mind, I guess, but Louis interrupted it.

Dr. Mills is writing everything down increasingly fast.

\- And did this Louis help with your grieving process?

\- Yes, he did. He gets me.

\- Well, maybe someday I'll get the chance to meet him.

Harry smiles and Dr. Mills looks at him for a while longer before taking notes again. After a couple of seconds, he asks:

\- And what about your medications, Harry?

- I'm taking everything.

Dr. Mills raises his eyes at Harry's face, examining, searching, and Harry feels the urgent need to add:

\- As prescribed.

Harry doesn't even blink before lying and he feels like he should be more concerned about that fact.

\- Perfect. Let me just take a few notes, here... Just a second.

As Dr. Mills takes his time to write down his new - somehow, for him, apparently vital - information, Harry takes the opportunity to visually explore the room. From its white walls to its light blue curtains, from its greyish floor to its dark wood furniture. It's like visiting the inside of his own medical pills, Harry decides. The ceiling fan is spinning slowly and Harry follows its movement for a good while and it all feels like some sort of relaxing exercise: the silence; the weak wind caressing his face; the following of the circular, repetitive movement of a ceiling fan. Calmer than he was a minute ago, Harry takes his eyes off of the fan and brings them to the office door. It's only then that he sees it. It, being the superior half of Louis' face. Nothing but cinnamon hair, blue eyes and button nose. It's still the most perfect thing Harry has ever seen. Harry's pretty sure Louis is standing on his tiptoes. He makes an effort not to laugh and Louis furrows his eyebrows at him.

-So, I have to ask you, Harry. The voices.

Harry's barely listening.

\- How are they lately? Have you been hearing anything, having any thoughts that don't seem like your own?

Louis shakes his head. Harry is still looking at him, admiring. Louis shakes his head again and waits for a second longer. When Harry doesn't react, he raises on his tiptoes (maybe he wasn't already on his tiptoes before, who knew he could reach that high?) and now Harry can see his mouth, his reddish, reddish mouth, as he clearly mouths the word "no". And Harry hesitates which brings Louis to rolling his eyes and mouthing "no" again, this time, more emphatically, more impatiently, shaking his head harder.

\- No.

\- Nothing?

\- No, nothing.

\- Well, ok. Ok. So I guess that's it, Harry. As you know, this is nothing but a check-up routine session, yeah?

\- Yeah.

They begin to stand up synchronized and Harry wonders who's more anxious for the appointment to be over.

\- As usual, you know you can call me if anything changes or if you need me for any other reason.

Dr. Mills guides Harry to the hallway with his skeletal hand on Harry's back and as soon as Harry steps out of his office, Dr. Mills goes back inside and closes the greyish door behind him. Good, that's good. Or, at least, it's over. Following the same style of Dr. Mills' office, the hallway is cold due to its extremely white lights and the feeling of being inside a hospital returns. Harry doesn't appreciate it one bit.

The receptionist's table is empty, which probably means Emma went to the bathroom or left for a smoke (or is nosily staring at other patients somewhere out of Harry's sight) or is doing something else that she likes to do while she's supposed to be working, because there's no one here but Harry. No one here but Harry and Louis, who's waiting for Harry at the end of the hallway, leaning against the white wall, looking slightly impatient. Harry can't help but notice the empty - empty! - glass jar that Louis is holding. Harry's proud of him. Harry's also secretly proud of himself for how well he knows Louis.

As Harry gets closer to his golden boy, he realizes Louis isn't only slightly impatient, he's also slightly annoyed and is giving Harry the silent treatment. Great. Harry knows how Louis can't resist complaining loudly, obnoxiously when he's upset and how he usually can't keep his mouth shut for a small period of time, so Harry will take his chances with this silent treatment of his. They walk side by side until they leave the clinic's building and on the outdoors, the sunlight is warm and strong. It feels like a different reality, a different universe. A better one, if it wasn't for Louis' irritated kitten face. They haven't even reached the tree where Harry tied Chuck's bicycle to when Louis speaks up - just like Harry knew he would - voice icy and calculated, as if he was trying to prove a point.

\- Why did you hesitate?

\- Hm?

\- Back there...

\- I don't know what you're talking about.

\- Harry.

- Hm?

- You hesitated when he asked you about the voices.

- Oh, it's-

\- Is there anything I should know?

Louis is getting visibly more irritated, agitated and concerned, and Harry can't really blame him. He would probably feel the same way if the situations were reversed. Harry tries to take a deep breath, like Louis taught him to, and remind himself that Louis understands him and that Louis won't judge and that Louis is kind, always, even if Harry may be a bit too broken. Honesty is the only way to go, is the least Louis deserves. Harry tries not to let his tears, slowly blurring his vision now, water down the meaning of his words.

\- Lou-

The first tear drops and on the sidewalk, it makes a heart-shaped stain.

\- Lou, I'm just so scared.

His words seem to deflate Louis' temper, they soften his expression and calm his eyes. A tamed storm. They are under a big oak tree, the one where Chuck's bike lies, when they stop walking. Louis holds Harry's hand slowly, carefully admiring his long fingers one by one. Harry feels special. The sunlight dances around the large green leaves of the oak tree and manages to hit Louis' cheeks, hit his eyelashes and his arms and the tip of his shoes. Louis is a dalmatian with spots made out of sunshine. Harry envies whatever gets to touch him all the time. The weather is warm and the breeze is fresh and gentle, trying to dry up Harry's tears. Harry decides to continue.

- I'm so, so afraid, Louis. What if I can't tell what is real and I-

- Harry.

\- Do you think I could-

\- Harry.

Is only when Louis holds Harry's face with both of his small hands, eyebrows furrowed and concerned, that Harry realizes he was approaching an anxiety attack. Louis is looking deep into his eyes while he simulates the same breathing pattern he always does and Harry can't tell for how long they stay like this, but it goes on until Louis' skin against his makes him feel like there's suddenly more room to breathe. Maybe that's what Louis is. More room to breathe. Vital as air. That seems about right, Harry considers as he closes his eyes.

\- You're okay, yeah?

Harry nods.

\- Can you pay attention to me or do you wanna wait a little longer? We have all the time in the world.

Harry only nods, but Louis understands.

\- Then look at me, sunshine.

Harry does. Slowly.

Louis puts a loose strand of Harry's hair behind Harry's ear and Harry will never look at anything else, will never look at anyone else the way he's looking at Louis now. He doesn't regret it. It's only fair.

\- We've read about schizophrenia before, haven't we?

Harry doesn't move, eyes alternating between Louis' eyes and Louis' mouth, trying to follow both of their rhythms.

\- You know this isn't how it works-

Harry starts to close his eyes again because he heard it all before, but before he can, Louis interrupts him.

\- Hey, no. Look at me.

Harry grumpily opens his eyes, self-conscious about the tears clinging to his eyelashes.

- Look at me, love. That's it.

Harry takes a deep breath, inhaling Louis in, and gives him a small smile.

\- You're afraid you can't tell what's real and what isn't, is that it?

Harry nods and his nose bumps into Louis' but Louis doesn't even flinch.

- Ok. Does this seem real enough to you?

And before Harry can grasp what Louis' next move will be, he's getting even closer, bringing his sweet smell with him, and Louis leans his head in a way that fits perfectly into Harry's most uncontrollable desires and with a kiss, he makes Harry a supernova. Harry isn't on the earth's surface anymore, he's a star, he's the whole universe. Harry feels like his defective mind exploded and created something beautiful in its place. It's their first kiss and it feels like the first, and it feels like the thousandth, it feels like the last kiss after a life spent together, it tastes like every kiss they will ever enjoy on each other's lips. It feels like eternity. Harry doesn't think the heat that took over his chest will ever die down. He thinks of it as a medal. He's nothing but a burning flame now and he wants to burn out for the rest of his life. Louis' kiss, soft and gentle, brings the world back to its axis. Makes things right again. In Louis' lips, Harry can taste the next 80 years of his life; he can taste the universe. How could Harry have not known this before? He's Harry's little north star, bringing Harry back to love. "It's too good to be true", Harry thinks dumbly, dazedly.

When they finally break apart, Louis' eyes are shining, constellations and shooting stars, and Harry wants to kiss them too. He doesn't. For now, he only admires Louis' pink cheeks and his messy cinnamon hair, both dotted with spots of sunlight. When their eyes meet, Louis' red, kiss-bruised lips morph into a blinding smile and that's the only true answer Harry will ever need and when Louis wraps his hands around Harry's neck, Harry doesn't even care about the question anymore.

❥

\- Is it ok if we head home now?

They have been lying in the grass, in the shade of the oak tree, for the last twenty minutes; Harry's cheeks pressing into Louis' thigh as Louis runs his fingers through Harry's hair, braiding poems into its strands. Louis tries to braid small flowers into them as well, but due to their softness, every flower crown only lasts for a couple of seconds and the petals return too soon to the ground. "You're still a flower prince, crown or not", Louis said. They are surrounded by the fresh smell of grass, by the quiet breeze and by sunlight. It's their kingdom. It feels like they are discovering something only they know, as if they are inventing something no one else has ever even heard about before. It must be love.

Still, even in the middle of this passionate haze, Harry is conscious enough to know that Louis is intentionally keeping them here, under the oak tree, until he's sure that Harry's ok to go home. Louis may make excuses about how he wants to sit for a while and just admire the sunny view, but Harry knows he's secretly (or not so secretly, after all) analyzing whether Harry's day can go on or not, whether Harry's ready, whether Harry's back. Back here, with him; away from his own paranoias that not even Louis fully understands. Louis is taking care of him. Harry doesn't deserve it. All the little things that have happened in the last half an hour have been lovely and the universe has been aligned again and Harry knows he's good to go. Louis runs his fingers one more time through Harry's hair strands before saying:

\- Oh, right. Mr. Morrison's sick...

\- Yeah. It's the flu.

Harry has never been more anxious for Louis' answer, afraid that he will decline Harry's invitation to visit his house and this time, it feels like it would hurt more than the others before. Louis must sense Harry's fear somehow - and not for the first time Harry reminds himself how deep their connection truly is - because the next thing Louis says is:

\- Will you play your guitar for me when we get there?

Harry smiles slowly, shyly.

\- Maybe.

Louis tugs on Harry's hair a bit, just for show, tilting Harry's head towards him and also accidentally towards the sun. Harry can't really tell the difference, too blinded by their beauty, especially when Louis is shining in the way he is right now. The action, the strong tug on his hair, makes something warm spread through Harry's belly, warm and greedy. Harry wonders about acceptable ways to ask Louis to do it again; all the time, if possible.

When Harry's eyes finally adjust to the clarity and a shining Louis comes into focus, Louis is already smiling down at him, resting his small fingers in Harry's hair, near his ears.

\- I'll take my chances with your maybe.

They share a small, quiet moment as a tribute to what happened here today, in the dotted shade of a forever special oak tree, where they became part of each other, where their lives were melted together by a secret fire only they could feel. Here, they let their hearts burn. The moment is unplanned and simply feels right. They don't say anything, only stare at each other's eyes, the precious place where all the universe's answers have been hiding all along.

When the small, silent tribute is over, they get on Chuck's bike and Louis assumes his usual koala position while Harry pedals. They're the dream team. On the way to Harry's house, their bubble of happiness and tangerines and tranquility is back and before they realize, they are crossing the imponent gates of Harry's condo. Louis follows Harry quietly while he places Chuck's bike on the bicycle hooks that are nailed into the garage's wall and silently waits for Harry to confirm that Rosa already left. He stays quiet while Harry unlocks the front door and while they are entering Harry's house, suddenly, out of nowhere:

\- KITTY!

If Harry startles, the problem is his and his only. Harry turns around, after having almost peed his pants from the sudden burst noise, way too sharp, way too close to his right ear - the sensitive one, excuse him - and finds an open-mouthed Louis, eyes sparkling, hands on his cheeks, and looking straight into an specific point in Harry's living room. Harry understands nothing. He chooses to follow Louis' line of sight and finds, on the end of it, a grumpy Cat, sleeping. How can Cat still be grumpy while taking a nap is beyond Harry's understanding. He is about to introduce him to Louis when Louis bumps him out of his away and starts to approach Cat, all excited, whispering:

\- Kitty! Kitty! Psps, kitty!

Harry locks the door from the inside, patiently, and follows Louis into his own house.

When Harry reaches the big white couch where Cat's taking his nap, Louis has his knees slightly bent and is looking at Cat with fascinated eyes, concentrated. Harry suspects Louis is also following Cat's pattern of breathing in a way that he can see both of their tummies inflating and deflating at the same time. It's an adorable view.

- Hi, kitty. I'm Louis.

Harry's definitely in love.

Cat, on the other hand, doesn't seem as invested in the social interaction currently happening, an interaction he is supposed to play a huge part on. When choosing between Louis and sleep, Cat clearly chooses sleep and what fool would even do that? Harry can make it better, so he will. Not because of Louis' excitement or anything.

\- Do you want me to wake him up for you?

Louis turns around at the speed of light.

\- NO!

Louis says it as if Harry just threatened to burn down his house and kidnap all his family. Louis starts to speak in a lower voice then, just a bit higher than a whisper and Harry is endeared when he finally understands that Louis is doing it to not wake Cat up.

- Let the kitty sleep.

\- Louis, he sleeps all day long.

\- Well, then stop bothering the kitty. I'm sure he will find me when the time's right for our paths to cross.

- You and Cat, you mean? Your paths?

\- Yeah, me and kitty. It's our destiny.

\- No, not kitty. Cat.

Louis' voice is back on its normal volume when he speaks next, which means it's loud. Annoyingly loud. Priorities, Harry thinks. If Louis would rather fight with Harry then preserve the precious sound of a sleeping innocent cat, then Louis is just a terrible human being. But, it's ok, though. Harry wouldn't change it if he could.

\- I know he's a cat, Harold, for fuck's sake. I'm calling him kitty as a private nickname.

\- No, no. His name is literally Cat.

Louis stares at Harry in disbelief. Then, he shakes his head. Slowly. Disapprovingly.

\- You did not name your kitty, Cat.

\- Not my kitty, my Cat.

- I think I'm going to kidnap Kitty and give Kitty some dignity, some better quality of life, you know? Away from Stupid B-

\- Don't start with the Stupid Bambi again.

\- I was actually going to call you a stupid bitch.

Harry groans as he grabs Louis' small hand and starts tugging him into the hallway, away from the living room, making their way to the elevator. Louis just keeps complaining. Loudly. It's a melody to Harry's ears.

\- I'll call you whatever I want after you decided to do that with poor Kitty. Can you imagine if your mother decided to call you Curly-Haired Boy? Are you under any illusion that you're Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's?

- I actually like to think I'm Brian from Breakfast Club \- Harry says and presses the elevator's button. Louis doesn't mention the size of the house, nor the huge family painting nor the extravagance that is the elevator in itself. Harry loves him for it.

- Brian, really?

Harry nods as they get off the elevator and enter his room.

\- You're never the bad boy, Harold. Never.

\- You can choose, then. I'm either Audrey or I'm Brian.

Louis looks at him indignant, as if this is a way bigger matter than it really is, as if this is an important conversation that they are having. Louis looks at him as if everything Harry says is important, precious, as if Harry's always worthy of being listened to. The way Louis is looking at him, even with his challenging blue eyes, makes a good feeling warm up Harry's body from the inside.

Harry closes his bedroom door - closes it, not locks it - as Louis throws himself into Harry's bed, staring at the ceiling, no manners at all this boy, and mutters "I miss Kitty, Kitty's way more fun than you". Harry tries not to pay attention to him. Tries and fails. He's a brat. Instead of answering, though, Harry grabs his guitar, safely kept inside its hard black case, and places it on the bed. As Harry unlocks its latch and opens it, Louis looks at it from the corner of his eyes, acting as if he's not the slightest bit interested, and goes right back to looking at the ceiling. He's ridiculous. He also seems to be a bit sweaty, Harry notices, and the next thing he knows, Harry's opening the big attic windows so the breeze can make Louis more comfortable. Harry hates how whipped he is. He also secretly doesn't; not one bit.

Harry then heads into his bathroom, the bag he packed for the day in his hand. He locks the bathroom door - at least this key he still deserves - and finally, finally takes the napkin out of his front pocket. He feels 100 pounds lighter when he does it, even if he mostly forgot about the pills during the day. He places the napkin on the sink and opens his bag. The first thing he finds inside is the small glass jar, the one with the red ribbon, he handed Louis before. It has a few more strawberries than he first noticed, a lot more, actually, meaning Louis didn't eat as much as Harry thought, but it's ok. Harry will come up with new ways of feeding him eventually. Harry throws away the strawberries, washes the jar in his bathroom sink and dries it with his own face towel. It's only when he places the jar on the sink, next to the rolled-up napkin, that he gets an idea. He doesn't know why he does it really, maybe it's because he may need his pills later in life, who knows; maybe it's because he's too tired of winning fake basketball matches. The point is that Harry opens the napkin and throws in the trash. He takes the pills, one by one, as always, a ritual, and places them in the small glass jar. Maybe this is a way of controlling how long he managed to last without all these bad chemicals taking over his brain. The jar can be a measurement for his progress. He hopes he will reach the red ribbon soon. This is way better than throwing the pills in the toilet, this is actually a perfect idea. When he's done, he closes the jar and hides in under the sink, deep into the sink cabinet, behind all his towels. No one will ever find it here, this is perfect.

Harry's happiness is transformed into embarrassment as soon as he leaves the bathroom and takes in the scene in front of him. Harry tries to breath slowly. Louis is sitting on his bed, which would be perfect any other day, but there are sheets of paper everywhere, scattered all around the bedroom; its placement so extremely messy and random that the wind might as well have had blown them away from Harry's open guitar case. It's from the messiness of this chaos that Harry can tell that this was nothing but Louis' work. Louis managed to create a hurricane in the less than 5 minutes that Harry was away. If Harry wasn't so embarrassed, he would be impressed. The problem is that Harry knows exactly what these sheets of paper are and he can't really wrap his head around the idea of Louis reading the words written in them, the words Harry wrote in them; the words Harry wrote in them while thinking about Louis. It's too much. Harry can feel his cheeks getting warmer and redder and he tries to look for ways to explain this mess without sounding so pathetically in love when Louis speaks up, holding a paper sheet between his delicate fingers.

\- So, what's this, then?

Harry doesn't really know which option is worse: have Louis knowing how gone Harry truly is for him or have Louis thinking that Harry wrote those words for someone else. Despite the embarrassment that the first choice will cause (and possible panic on Louis' part from the intensity of Harry's feelings), the second option is so absurd and so, so wrong and it's just no. No.

- No.

Harry's answer seems to amuse Louis, even when he won't let a smile show up on his lips. It seems like Louis was following Harry's train of thought and Harry hates him.

\- What's this, Harold?

Louis shakes the sheets of paper slightly, as if bringing Harry's attention back to the topic, like Harry's attention would be anywhere else.

\- I'm still working on it.

- That's not what I asked.

Harry is trying to come up with an answer when Louis says:

\- Can I see them?

Harry feels about to faint. So he hasn't read them. Good. Good. Okay.

\- I won't if you don't want me to.

Louis sounds sincere and that's the worst part of it all because Harry thinks that, objectively, Louis should probably know how Harry feels. It's important. It's part of everything that they are, even if Louis doesn't exactly end up feeling the same way that Harry does; doesn't feel it so intensely. If that's the case, it would only partially kill Harry, it would only ruin half of his heart forever. Harry would survive, he guesses.

\- You won't like it.

It's the best thing Harry can come up with instead of a clear denial or a clear acceptance. It's something in the middle. Louis gives him the perfect answer either way.

\- I love absolutely everything that you do.

Harry looks at him for a second longer and finds only honesty in his words. There's a small smile on Louis' lips, accepting and loving, and Harry nods. Louis understands it as the confirmation that it is.

- Ok. So, I wanna read these three. Kingdom, Teacup and Heartbeat.

Harry thinks about how many feelings he bleed into those pages and tries not to feel self-conscious. Leave it to Louis to pick the most obvious of them all.

Harry closes the bathroom door, has been standing still next to it for way too long, and makes his way to his bed. The pinkish duvet is comfy and soft. Harry sits the closest that he can sit to Louis' body, he lays his head on Louis' shoulder and closes his eyes.

\- Are these songs?

\- They are supposed to be, yeah.

- They look like poems.

\- Well, they are for now, but-

\- Beautiful, beautiful poems.

Harry stays quiet and Louis takes a breath. They share a silence that belongs to no one else in the world but the two of them.

\- Do you even like to play the guitar?

Before Harry can begin to wonder why Louis is even asking him this specific question, the words are coming out of his mouth and it feels like a flood. It's an answer that holds the kind of honesty that is crude and deep, the kind of honesty Harry never shows to anyone else but himself.

\- I hate it, but I think my mom will love me more if I do play it, probably my father too, and I think that's reason enough to do it.

Louis doesn't judge, Harry's perfect, perfect boy. Louis simply asks: 

\- Do you like to write?

Harry nods. Louis' voice surrounds him like a tight hug.

\- Those aren't lyrics, then. They are poems, yeah? Beautiful poems.

Louis kisses the top of Harry's head and Harry thinks that if he could conquer the world, he would only do it if he could hand it to Louis Tomlinson's delicate hands right after. Harry would also give him the moon and the sun and the stars, but that's only obvious.

\- Do you wanna choose one for me or should I just trust my instincts?

Harry would love for Louis to choose one by himself, but what if he hates it on his very first try or finds it too scary, too much, and never wants to talk to Harry again? Harry opens his eyes and points to a paper sheet that reads "Kingdom" on top.

- Perfect, that was the one I was going to choose anyway, Curly. Ok. Here we go.

Louis reads in silence and Harry closes his eyes again. He knows what Louis is reading, he knows. "Kingdom" has sentences like: "I think you are magnificent. majestic. I think you make me feel like a child again, younger. happier. I know life isn't as easy as it feels on late mornings with you" and "I don't struggle with the tide of destiny anymore, as long as it takes me to you" and "I don't think this is how love's supposed to be, I think you took me someplace beyond, this must be something above love. This is everything to me". Harry feels nervous. When Louis takes a sharp breath, Harry thinks about "I know this world ain't strong enough to keep us from each other"; thinks about "this is our kingdom and you're the king of everything I've ever loved. I've got you under my skin as my deepest happiness. your love doesn't take me to heaven, it brings me back to myself, keeping me sane, and i'll never be able to thank you enough for it. I'll spend my forever trying to"; but Louis doesn't say anything. More seconds go by and when Louis speaks, voice a bit hoarse, it's nothing that Harry was expecting:

- I'm gonna read "Teacup" now, Bambi.

He doesn't ask, only states, but Harry nods anyway. Nods and thinks about how Louis will feel when reading "I'm so in love with you, I'd burn cities down in your name". Harry can feel his cheeks heating when he remembers that he wrote: "you smile at me slowly and you're the baddest, a loaded gun with your superstar face and I always feel like you're deciding whether to spear my life and I couldn't love you more", but he doesn't move. Harry stays still, his head on Louis' shoulder, breathing in the same rhythm of Louis' breath. Syntony.

\- "Heartbeat" - Is all Louis says, in a voice so low that Harry isn't sure if he actually heard it or just imagined.

From memory, what Harry remembers from "Heartbeat" is: "in moments like this, I make myself small enough to fit into the spaces between your fingers, to hide from the world inside your chest. everything's shit except you and although my desire to disappear still pulses, I settle for laying my head in your chest. It works like an antidote everytime, a painless cure for my dedication to sadness. one day I'll write you a song in the rhythm of your heartbeat". Louis will understand.

Harry waits quietly, funny enough, listening to Louis' heartbeat.

It pulses.

And pulses.

And then:

\- Harry?

\- Yes?

\- Is this-

\- Yes.

\- All of them?

\- All of them.

Louis sounds urgent and it's not in a bad, scared, need-to-go-now way. Harry tries to hide his smile on the soft cotton of Louis' shirt. If Louis is not scared, not in the way that Harry thought he might be, then the more anxious Louis gets, the calmer Harry gets. It's not mean, it's only a reaction from knowing once again that they do have all the time in the world. Louis should relax, Harry thinks. This is only forever, not long at all.

- Just to make it clear-

\- Yeah?

\- Did you really-

- Yes, Louis. I wrote them about you.

Harry can feel Louis nodding and he sounds overwhelmed. Harry opens his eyes and moves to sit across the bed from Louis. It feels like a moment where they need to have eye contact, need to be connected. Strangely enough, Harry doesn't feel embarrassed anymore. He just wants to make sure that Louis understands.

\- How long have you felt this way?

\- Since forever.

\- Good. Good. That's good.

Louis looks so good in Harry's bed, an angel surrounded by poems Harry wrote about him, about them. Harry doesn't think he will ever need anything more than this. As the thought crosses Harry's mind, Louis looks up with his gigantic and bright blue eyes. When Louis says quietly, furrowed brows, "I'm not as good with words, Harry", Harry only nods. Then, Louis continues:

\- I need you to know that I don't think I deserve all that, I really don't, but if there's one chance in a million that I'm lucky enough to somehow have you thinking those things, Harry, those amazing, beautiful things about me, than fuck- Fuck, Harry.

If Harry thought he saw fascination before in Louis' eyes, it's nothing compared to the glow they have now. Harry would die a happy man if that was his last view. He thinks it's a beautiful thought to have, that he will never need anything more.

\- I want you all the time, yeah? And, I mean, really, all the time. And I know that it's not only that I want you, I think I may need you too, and it's scary because I think I may need you more than you need me; but you take such good care of me and you let me take care of you and I think this is it, yeah? I think everything else is just noise.

Harry doesn't cry, even if this feels like a movie, even when it feels like all of his wildest, most absurd fantasies came true; the fantasies that he craved the most. He knows he will never forget this, not when it's everything he ever wanted.

\- I think-

Louis jerks like he was just jumpscared and maybe he was, but it's just the sound of cars parking in the garage. Still, Louis' eyes are large, the size of the universe, and he got out of the bed and is currently heading to the fire escape before Harry could even notice. He doesn't look upset, though, only agitated and alarmed and makes Harry feel like he should apologize, so he does.

\- It's my parents... I'm sorry.

It's the apology that makes Louis turn around.

\- Oh, no. No. It's ok, Curly. I'm just- I'm gonna go.

Louis points in the direction of the fire escape as if Harry had somehow forgotten it was there. Harry watches the speed Louis is trying to get out of his house, the urgency of everything, and wonders if maybe Louis is the one being reasonable here. Harry isn't exactly sure of what his mother's reaction would be if she found Louis here, Harry thinks she would probably find him quite cute. Harry's father on the other hand...Harry isn't sure. Maybe Louis is right. When Harry decides to help Louis in his escape, he is already with one foot out the window. Harry just can't let him go this easily. He pulls Louis by his cotton shirt, soft like his skin.

\- Today was amazing. Thank you.

Louis smiles and for a second, all of his crazy rush to leave vanishes. His eyes are tender when he speaks:

\- The pleasure's all mine, curly.

\- I mean it. It's not an easy day for me.

\- I know, Bambi. Promised Chuck I would take care of you, though, so here I am. If I happen to steal one kiss or another-

Harry kisses Louis in order to shut him up, but ends up stopping time instead. They create something bigger than a galaxy and there, nothing else is real but this and, as Louis would say, the rest is just noise. The kiss causes Harry and Louis to exist for a few eternities in a distant universe where nothing else matters but the both of them. The second kiss is even better than the first. A little sweeter.

\- I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?

Louis smiles and again, that's all the answer Harry will ever need.

❥

Harry chooses to spend the 20 minutes he knows it will take for his mother to reach his bedroom tidying it up. He grabs the sheets of paper - his poems - that Louis scattered all around and places them in the guitar case again. He closes the attic windows, including the big one Louis used to reach the fire escape, and then he sits on his bed and waits. He hears the sounds the elevator makes before he can count twenty heartbeats. Then, comes a very specific sequence of sounds - the opening doors of the elevator; high heel footsteps; Virginia's voice, light and breezy; three quick knocks; and the sound of Harry's bedroom door being opened - then, his mother is standing right in front of him, holding her cellphone by her ear. She gives Harry a small smile as a greeting.

\- Do you know how spoiled you sound when you complain about things like that, young lady?

The joking tone she uses is enough for Harry to know who she's talking to. As she enters the room, Cat uses the last second before Harry's bedroom door is completely closed to enter the room. He goes straight for Harry's pillow, doesn't even say hi. It was only a short moment, but apparently it's already enough time for "Kitty" to pick up on some of Louis' bad manners. Harry would secretly love if he could watch the way Louis affects someone else other than Harry himself. It would make Harry feel somewhat less vulnerable to know he's not the only one being so deeply corrupted by Louis' ways; not the only one being ruined by Louis' laugh. Harry and Cat can apparently share that, then. See, it's not that Harry is weak, it's simply that Louis' a source of gravity on his own; it's inevitable.

\- Yeah, yeah. I'm in his room right now.

Virginia doesn't sit on Harry's bed, which means her visit will be a short one, then.

\- Oh, he's not as messy as he used to be and you know it.

Virginia laughs.

\- I suspect it was your bad influence that kept things that way. The attic's actually pretty well-organized, I don't know how you didn't claim it first.

While nodding to whatever is being said to her on the other end of the line, Virginia, still standing by Harry's bed, starts taking off her high heel shoes, one by one, and Harry knows how not-classy she thinks the action is, which means she must be really tired, even if she does sounds like she's in a good mood. She's way better at venting than Harry is. After she does it, she gets lighter, like a weight has been taken off of her chest. She gets tired and breezy, exactly the way she is right now. Maybe she stopped by the Sunset Gardens and paid Chuck a visit. Harry knows they use the same coping mechanism sometimes, the same grieving method.

Virginia is now holding her two high heel shoes on her other hand, the one that she's not using to hold her cellphone, and Harry loves when she does things she considers informal or bad-mannered, laid-back even. It makes him think about australian Virginia and where she would be right now, who she would be by now, celebrating her freedom surrounded by the ocean waves. Tangled loose hair, no low ponytail. Barefoot, no fancy high heels. It's always a good picture to paint.

\- Oh, no... Not yet, no.

Virginia then looks at the ground, somewhat embarrassed, guilty, and Harry doesn't really understand why, but he doesn't ask.

\- But you both can use my phone, yeah? Here, I'll give it to him.

Virginia hands Harry her cellphone. Harry stretches his hand and takes it.

- Hey, Gems.

Virginia gives Harry a small smile and starts to leave his room. She stops by the door and turns around: "Dinner in an hour, ok?". Harry nods and she smiles at him again and there's meaning behind that smile. It feels like both an apology and admiration. It's an emotional day for everyone, Harry thinks. Virginia knocks on the painted wood of Harry's door frame once before leaving.

\- I see Carl hasn't managed to kidnap you yet.

\- Not yet, but he keeps trying, though.

\- Isn't the italian mob getting a bit impatient by now?

- I wouldn't know. I try not to talk to them anymore, they were pretty rude the last time.

Gemma laughs.

\- Happy October 8th, H.

- Happy October 8th.

\- How are you holding up?

Harry really thinks about the question before answering her, no superficial conversations now, not when it comes to this particular topic, and realizes he has had worse years than this one. It's bad, but it's not as bad as it once was.

\- It's always hard, I think, but I'm... good. I'm better, I guess.

Gemma's answer is as sincere as his.

\- I think that's as good as it can get, yeah?

Harry nods and she doesn't see him, but she continues anyway.

\- I can tell you're kind of better, though. Really, H. I know it's even harder for you, for you and mom, I think, than it is for everyone else.

\- Thank you, Gems.

\- Just don't tell me you spent the day all by yourself. 

Harry smiles.

\- No, no. I actually didn't.

And that apparently is the wrong answer to give her because the next thing he knows, Gemma's voice is way lighter than it was a second ago, amused and curious.

\- Who did you spend it with, then?

\- You're so nosy when you want to be, mom has told you that before, yeah?

She laughs loudly and the pain Harry feels from missing her is like a splinter in his heart, a small and permanent wound that never really heals. It's the pain of distant love.

\- Would you please keep me entertained, for fuck's sake, Harry, trust me.

Gemma groans and Harry laughs.

\- The only thing I do now is try to choose between these fucking stupid colors that are no different from each other, I swear. It's the same color every single time!

Harry laughs once more because Gemma speaks like she's 15 again and this whole phone call is nothing but a time machine for him. He lets her irritated voice, still funny, still breezy somehow, guide him through the years that already passed them by.

\- Harry, do you have any idea how many tones of white there are? There is like diamond white and like porcelain and-

\- Bright white and ivory! And-

\- Yeah, yeah, and I-

\- And champagne! And pearl white and candlelight and-

\- Ok, Harry. It's enough, I get it. The gay community is really proud of you.

Harry laughs.

\- What a terrible life you're living, Gems.

\- So, go on then, Junior. Who did you choose to spend your October 8th with?

\- With a friend.

\- A friend...

\- Yes.

\- Is this the Michael one mom keeps telling me about?

\- No.

\- You know, mom thinks you both are... How did she put it...? Flirting, I think that's what she said.

\- No.

\- Are you flirting with this Michael kid, my dear adopted brother?

- I hate when you call me that.

\- Because mom sure thinks you are. 

\- Well, mom is crazy.

\- Yes, it runs in the family, you know how it is.

Harry shouldn't, but he laughs anyway. Gemma laughs as well.

\- Stop trying to change the subject, please. I'm not that easily fooled. Tell me who had the honor of spending this special day in your company, Junior?

Harry takes a breath deep enough that he is sure Gemma hears it on the other side of the line.

- His name is Louis.

\- Louis.

Gemma enunciates Louis' name slowly, testing it. Harry thinks it sounds wonderful, like a spoken poetry made of only one word.

\- I like it. Fancy. French.

Harry rolls his eyes and Gemma doesn't see it.

\- And was he a good company for you today?

\- He was perfect.

\- Hm... perfect... Naughty boy, Junior. Planning on proposing anytime soon?

Harry scoffs.

\- Oh my God, I know that scoff! You actually like him!

\- I'm hanging up now.

\- Have you told him yet?

\- Gemma.

\- Ok, ok. Just describe him for me, then. I need to picture him clearly in my mind, you know how it is, future brother-in-law and everything...

Harry laughs and, shamefully, blushes.

\- He would kill me if he heard me say it, but he's so small, Gems, I swear, the smallest.

Gemma laughs loudly.

\- The bluest eyes and feathery cinnamon hair, it sways across his forehead when it's windy. Really really pretty.

\- Harry, please tell me you're bringing him to the party.

- I'd never torture him like that.

\- Mom said you're bringing someone...

- I never said that!

Gemma scoffs and Harry's pretty sure she's rolling her eyes, even if he can't prove it.

- When do you and mom even talk that much?

\- What do you mean? I'm her favorite child, Junior.

It's the truth, but Harry laughs like it isn't.

Harry stays silent for a moment while Gemma whispers something about dinner plans to someone that Harry can't see. It sounds like she's deciding with Billy from which restaurant they should order their dinner from. Harry knows she will choose chinese. He thinks Billy should know it as well.

When Gemma's voice returns to their phone call, she's asking absurd questions.

\- Does Louis know about Michael?

\- What is there to know about Michael, Gemma?!

\- You know, you should invite Michael!

\- Should I really invite Michael to your engagement party, Gemma? Really? Is that your brilliant idea?

\- What? It would make the small one jealous!

\- Gemma, I can't believe I, as your younger and prettier brother, have to be the one to tell you this, but-

\- I'm serious! Jealousy always works! How do you think I managed to catch Big Bill over here?

\- Oh, you mean Billy.

\- Don't call him that.

\- Send Billy my best, yeah?

\- Think about my idea, Junior...

\- Oh, I'm sure I will.

\- Have a good perfectly-scheduled dinner with dad and mom.

\- Thank you. I'm wishing a good chinese takeout for you and Billy.

\- And happy October 8th, yeah?

\- Happy October 8th. I miss you, Gems.

\- Miss you more, H.

Gemma hangs up after blowing him a kiss. Harry gets out of his bed and puts on his stay-at-home clothes to the sound of Lou Reed's Billy.

_Billy was a good friend of mine_

_We grew up together ever since we were nine_

_We went to school, he was my best friend_

_And I thought our friendship would never end_

Baggy grey t-shirt, loose black shorts and barefoot, Harry's physically ready for dinner, but he's not mentally ready for dinner. Not yet. Not so fast. It's too soon to go on with his day, Louis would understand. Harry looks at his bedroom door and looks at his bed, looks at its comfy pinkish duvet. He does it once more and decides. Harry jumps in his bed and turns up the volume of the music. Head in his pillow, he closes his eyes.

_In highschool he played football_

_And me, I didn't do anything at all_

_He made touch-downs, while I played pool_

_And no one could figure out, which one of us was the fool_

Harry waits until Lou Reed's over.

_Billy was a friend of mine_

_I grew up with him ever since we were nine_

_We went together to school_

_And now I often wonder, which one of us was the fool_

He then gets out of bed. He's ready for dinner.

❥

After leaving his bedroom, Harry follows the same routine he does every night before dinner and everything's exactly the same. The elevator takes the same 10 seconds it always does to arrive to Harry's floor; the huge family painting is still hanging by their living room table, proud and slightly arrogant, in Harry's opinion; Virginia Styles is sitting in her usual chair, on the left side of the dinner table; and Richard Styles sits on his usual place, the one closer to their front door. Everything's exactly the same, but there isn't a real sense of comfort, not for Harry, at least. The whole unchangeable elements, always the same, always constant, feel closer to drowning in fly trap glue than it does to a routine.

When Harry finally takes his seat by the table - always the same one - the dinner is already served: macaroni alfredo. Harry's parents are already eating and Virginia Styles is the first one to compliment the food, after having taken her cellphone back from Harry's hands.

\- Emily, this tastes delicious!

Emily Ivanov is a russian girl who left her country years ago to complete her education in the U.S., which she did; brilliantly so, according to what she says. As a way to top off her monthly income, she started to work as a housekeeper and discovered a "passion", as she herself calls it, for cleaning, cooking and tidying up stranger's houses. "A vocation", Harry's pretty sure she said one time. She says she has a daily job and only works as a housekeeper in her free time, but that's all she ever says about it. Emily never gives further details about what the supposed daily job entails. Harry feels guilty for finding her story a bit suspicious, so he chooses to believe that it's his own fault for not knowing more about her life. Harry doesn't really talk to her that much, even when she clearly makes an effort to be the nicest she can be with him. Emily always seems to be in a good mood and she works for Harry's family usually during the nights, covering up Rosa's days-off. Having said that, Emily seems to be the exact opposite of Rosa, even while wearing the same uniform, and the idea will never not be funny to Harry; as if the whole Style's residence would simply change its personality during the day according to the housekeeper that is currently working or as if the two of them, Rosa and Emily, were actually the same person, like the Evil Queen and the Evil Witch from Snow White. Harry thinks it's funny. Emily is at least 30 years younger than Rosa, long blonde hair (that she wears in a loose braid) and slightly unprofessional. Way prettier too, if Harry was into that sort of thing.

Right then, Emily's head peeks from the kitchen door and she screams:

\- Thank you, Virginia! Did you like it, Harry?

Virginia. Virginia. Harry has never seen anyone outside his family call his mother anything other than Miss Styles. Not even Rosa. Gemma even calls their mother Miss Styles to mock her sometimes. Virginia. Harry has no idea how Emily ended up hired and the fact that she's been working here for more than a year will never cease to impress him. He once asked Gemma what she thought of it and she answered "It wasn't mom who decided it" and when Harry had no idea what she was talking about, she added "I know you know what I'm talking about". Dread filled Harry's stomach then because he knew, even if he didn't. It was his father's idea and it sounded so obvious after he realized that he felt stupid for even asking Gemma in the first place. They never talked about it after that. Never discussed how Emily was some kind of twisted attempt of Harry's father to awaken some sort of heterosexual instinct in Harry. As if Emily is some sort of cure for Harry's illness, for Harry's sickness. An antidote. Isn't it wonderful when parents accept their child exactly for who they are?

- It's really good, Emily. Thank you.

After answering, Harry finds his father staring at him. Emily does what seems to be a proud squeal and returns to the kitchen. Their dinner continues as it usually does: Richard tells them what happened in the hospital, Virginia interjects between his sentences, making a comment here and another there, and Harry simply eats in silence until he's addressed. It doesn't take as long as it usually does this time.

\- So, how was the psychiatric evaluation? - It's Richard that asks.

\- It's called therapy, Rick. - Virginia says, a bit irritated.

\- It was all right. \- It is Harry's answer.

\- All right? - His father asks.

\- Yeah-

\- And did you eat?

\- Yeah.

\- Water?

Harry nods.

\- Medication?

\- Yes, dad.

Harry tries to think of it as a privilege, having his own doctor, analyzing him, checking up on him every single hour of every single day. If it's slightly maddening, it's an irony that only Harry can really appreciate.

After his father's interrogation is over, Virginia doesn't seem to have any further questions for Harry, which isn't exactly unusual, and after that, their dinner is pretty uneventful. The macaroni does taste delicious, though.

As soon as Harry gets the chance, before Emily can get to the dinner table to take out the dirty dishes, he excuses himself to his room, desperate for some alone time; craving a privacy from a life that isn't controlled, longing for a freedom that can only be found in happiness. And there's no such thing as a monitored happiness, Harry would know.

❥

It's been more than an hour since Harry has been lying on his bed, reading, while Cat lies comfortably on his belly, purring. Even with all the silence that surrounds them, Harry doesn't startle when someone knocks on his door and neither does Cat, both of them having heard the elevator noise. When Virginia opens Harry's bedroom door, he gives her a wink.

She is dressed in a silk purplish robe, kind eyes and sad smile. She closes the door after she enters the room and heads for the windows. She opens them all and turns off the lights. The only illumination in the room comes from street lamps and stars. It gives the bedroom a different atmosphere. She then proceeds to sit on Harry's bed without saying a word. Harry closes his book, places it on his nightstand and waits for her to say something. It feels important. Even Cat leaves Harry's belly and heads to the cat bed Harry got him (the one he never uses), as if giving them more space.

\- He once told me he would rather die young than reach fifty with an old soul.

\- His soul would never get old.

\- I know.

Silence.

\- He knew it too.

Virginia searches for something on her robe's pocket and when she shows Harry what she was looking for, he laughs. She shakes the cigarette pack with pride, starting to smile again.

\- He used to say I needed to let loose.

- Is this a celebration, then?

\- It's October 8th, Harry. Of course it is.

Sitting in Harry's bed, surrounded by the stars, it feels like they are in a different place; away from the earth, closer to Chuck.

\- You know that cigarettes were not exactly what he used to smoke, right?

She simply raises a perfectly-defined eyebrow at him.

\- Once, Walter hosted a huge party in our house.

Harry doesn't miss the way she calls Walter, Walter, and not dad or something like that. He loves her for it, even when he'll never be able to tell her.

\- Chuck must have been around 16, I guess. And it was a really fancy event, all high society- I was even wearing that pearl necklace that Gemma tried to steal once, you know the one, right?

Harry nods. He loves the way his mother tells her stories, all details and emotions. He feels a fondness for her now that he hasn't let himself feel for a while.

\- Anyway, Chuck arrived late. Completely baked.

Harry laughs loudly.

\- I swear, high as a kite, and started introducing himself to all those old rich men as Chuckles, a clown that Walter supposedly hired for entertainment purposes. He made it so it was a mixture between a stripper and a clown, I swear I can barely explain it. He promised them special tricks, Harry! They were fascinated.

Harry can picture the whole thing perfectly, especially considering how absurd it sounds. Chuck was always absurd, always surprising. Harry misses him terribly.

\- So, after promising a show that they would never forget, Chuck went to his room; all those old men craving Chuckles' magic tricks; and he simply never came back.

Harry squeals.

\- He probably just passed out on his bed or whatever, but every circle of conversation that I entered everyone would ask me if I knew where Chuckles was and it was so embarrassing, I wanted to kill him.

They share a meaningful look that only the people who ache for the same reason can.

\- What I mean is I know that it wasn't cigarettes that your uncle was smoking.

\- You know, we were once having dinner at that burger place near the Park...

\- Yeah.

\- And a really old man approached us and I promise, mom, called Chuck, Chuckles.

\- Harry, stop.

- I swear, mom!

\- Stop playing, are you serious?

\- Yes! A really, really old guy, like Walter-old.

\- And what did Chuck say?

- Said he had no idea what the guy was talking about.

\- Oh, my God...

\- Yes, I know!

She hands Harry a cigarette and picks one up for herself and they light them both together, quietly laughing. Virginia doesn't cough when she inhales and Harry raises one eyebrow at her, copying her expression from before. She only laughs and shrugs. When Harry does inhale, though, he coughs for what it feels like 70 hours straight. Her only reaction is a "Well, then at least I won't have to worry about that".

They stay in silence for a while, sharing the moment and the stars, celebrating.

\- Chuck used to say your father would make me old.

Her voice has another shade of sadness now, melodramatic.

\- And did he?

Virginia shrugs.

\- Time did, I guess. Life did.

\- That's not how it works, mom.

\- People change, Harry.

\- No, they don't.

\- Yes, they do, baby.

\- Chuck didn't.

It's the double meaning that makes Harry want to cry. Would have Chuck changed if he was given the chance? Did he just not have the time to? Not have the time to grow old...

\- Well, Chuck's way better than the rest of us.

No, Chuck wouldn't have, Harry decides. He wouldn't have changed, he wouldn't have let the world ruin him in any way. "Forever young" might as well have been written about his soul. Harry's heart aches when picturing Chuck growing old, white hair and the same kind smile. Harry wishes he could have seen it. It's sad and it's unfair, but Harry won't cry, not again, not during this small celebration.

\- Yes. Yes, he is.

Virginia nods after his answer, stays still for a while and then gets up. She opens one of the drawers that are underneath Harry's bed and grabs them two extra duvets. When she finishes her plan, they might as well be sitting in a giant duvet nest. It's comfortable and it's safe. Harry feels like they are floating on a cloud. Virginia takes a drag of her cigarette before speaking again.

\- I never told you this...

- Hm?

\- Chuck was with me when you were born.

It's Harry's turn to take a drag of his cigarette. He almost doesn't cough this time.

\- In the delivery room, I mean. Your father was travelling for some sort of work convention and couldn't make it back on time. It wasn't his fault, that's not I mean.

\- Yeah. I get it.

\- It's not a secret either, it's just something I wanted you to know. I think you would be happy to hear. He was the first person that ever held you in this world. So maybe this is another thing that explains how deep your connection was, right?

\- He told me, mom.

\- What?

\- He already told me that story, mom. \- Harry thinks that this, the fact that Chuck already told him, better explains how deep their connection was - He said he had never been happier.

\- Oh, Harry, did he?

\- Yeah, said his voice was the first voice I ever heard... outside your belly, I mean.

Virginia laughs a wet laugh.

\- Did he tell you what he said to you?

\- He sang me "Blackbird".

\- Yeah, he did, baby.

She gives Harry a sad smile, crying, and pulls his head into her lap. Harry goes easily. She sings " _Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly_ " and " _All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise_ ". She runs her fingers through Harry's hair and Harry can't help the tears that start to fall from his eyes. It feels like part of his soul is leaking, like he is overflowing with love. He probably is.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these sunken eyes and learn to see_

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to be free_

Even when they are surrounded by the sound of their crying, by the soft snoring coming from Cat's bed and by the rest of the outside noise coming from the open windows, it feels like absolute silence. The silence that Chuck's memory deserves. Respect and longing.

_Blackbird fly, blackbird fly_

_Into the light of a dark black night_

It's Harry that speaks first. He says "Fuck cancer" and his mother answers "Yeah, fuck cancer" and those are the last words he hears before falling asleep.

❥

It is the sound of the closing bedroom door, added to the noisy way that Cat's claws hit the floor, that wakes Harry up. Opening his eyes, Harry finds a dark room, windows opened and light coming only from the stars. He stretches his arms and stands up slowly, grabs his pajamas and heads to the bathroom. On the sink, he finds the black square saucer and doesn't think twice: picks up the pills, kneels to the height of the sink cabinet and moves his towels out of the way; finds the glass jar with the red ribbon. He places the pills inside of the jar and hides it again. Perfect. He puts on his pajamas, silky against his skin, and when he reaches his bedroom again, he finds a better illuminated room than the one he left.

The extra light comes from his nightstand and Harry simply can't believe his luck because apparently his mother forgot to take his cellphone with her this time. She always does. Every night. "It's for your own protection, Harry". Harry sees it as just another set of rules that he has to follow. He might as well think of it as a last celebration of the day, a surprise from his mother; or, even better, as an act of trust. Yeah, that's how Harry will think of the forgotten-cellphone. An act of trust. She's giving Harry an award for being so well behaved for so long and she trusts him to know how to use it.

The cellphone sits on the top of Harry's dream journal and it stayed lit up for the whole time it took Harry's mind to finish its monologue. Harry knows who he wants to be texting him, he just isn't sure if he is this lucky. He jumps in bed and grabs the phone. Turns out, Harry is the luckiest.

\- hey, was listening to _english rose_ and it made me think of you, so now i'll have to block you

Harry laughs and blushes. It's a lovely feeling.

\- Hello, Louis. How are you? x

\- no dont text me fucker havent you read my message? there's no other choice but deleting your number, bye foreverrrr

\- That's your way of saying you want to catch the wild wind home to hear my soft voice speak? x

\- that's my way of saying fuck you

Harry laughs again.

\- Just couldn't wait until tomorrow, could you? ;) x 

\- can never wait to tell you to fuck off harold

- You should tell me that tomorrow... during our date ;) x

\- now im definitely blocking you

\- Sweet dreams, Thumper xxx 

Louis doesn't answer.

- Hey. You get it, right? Bambi's best friend? Thumper.

Louis still doesn't answer.

\- The bunny. xxx

Silence.

\- Want me to send you a picture? :)

Nothing.

\- The little bunny, really really small... x

\- im gonna fucking murder you

- Already miss you, Thumper. Sweet dreams. xxxx H.

\- miss u more

And then:

\- u better fcking enjoy the last message, btw, it's the last time im being nice to u

Harry doesn't believe him. Not even for a second.

- see u tomorrow bambi, cant wait :******

Harry returns the cellphone to his nightstand, places it on top of his dream journal, in the same way that it was before, just in case that his mother's act of trust wasn't exactly an act of trust at all. Just in case she simply forgot the phone here and Harry was still not supposed to use it. Harry closes his eyes and lets his heart pulse and his blood flow to the sound of " _English Rose_ " until he eventually falls asleep.

When he does, he dreams of cold weathers and bicycle rides and pointy teeth and uncelebrated birthdays and black birds and stars that are too close to be real and kisses where he can taste the universe. The only thing he really remembers when he wakes up, still half conscious, is that it was all wrapped up in a Louis' haze that he's way too familiar with. He wants to dream all day.

❥


	3. The Performance

III 

THE PERFORMANCE 

October 27th

It's the insistent sunlight, bright and golden, that wakes Louis up. He's in denial at first and it takes him a couple of long minutes, filled with suffering and restlessness, to finally accept that there's no way he will be going back to sleep anytime soon. Giving up on that type of sleep, that pretty sweet type, the one that's almost like a short hibernation, doesn't come easily for Louis. He's pretty good at it, actually. Sleeping, he means. Passing out, too. Hibernating... Louis is a lad of infinite qualities, excellent ones, all of them. Louis can think of a couple of stupid jokes Harry would make about small, hibernating bear cubs, helpless in the face of their uncontrollable need for sleep, but Louis is not in the mood for them yet. Ok, that's probably a lie. Louis is always in the mood for Harry's jokes, doesn't matter how silly they are (and they always are at least slightly ridiculous and this is coming from Harry's biggest fan, so it must tell something about their quality level). Louis groans.

Irrevocably awake, he opens his eyes one at a time, slowly, and is immediately met with burning sun rays shining straight into his eyes. Shit. He closes his eyes in the same second and his first thought is "what the FUCK is that hideous yellow circle in the sky?". He can't help it. Louis is extremely honest in the mornings. Even more during the nights. Even more if there's alcohol involved. Eyes closed, Louis groans again. Then, he uses his hand to protect his eye - only the one he opened, the right one; there's no way he's risking going completely blind - and looks around the room. Louis finds his navy-blue curtains on the furthest window from the bed just the slightest bit opened, just a crack, and that is clearly the one thing to blame for his interrupted sleep. Evil, evil fucking curtains. He's always forgetting to close them the right way before going to bed, Louis thinks to himself, even if only as an ineffective distraction from what he really knows: the truth is that it was probably Harry who left the curtains half-opened yesterday, after having looked at the stars for almost an hour. "They look even better from your bedroom, Lou", Harry had said. "Do you think it's only because I can feel you near me?" Louis didn't answer. "Do you think the stars are shining brighter only because I'm touching you?". "I think they are celebrating our love", Louis told him. Harry had nodded, as if Louis' answer was the only acceptable thing he ever heard and after a soft silence, added: "Your eyes shine brighter, though". When Louis kissed his cheek and told Harry to stop trying to sweet-talk him, he was already in Louis's bedroom for fuck's sake, Harry simply recited "At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon". Louis asked him "Fitzgerald?" to which Harry answered: "He was talking about you, you know? He just didn't get the chance to meet you. Not as lucky as me, our poor Fitz". Suddenly, Louis doesn't mind the sunlight at all.

Louis stretches his arms above his head slowly, letting out a small puff of air. He feels slightly like a lazy sloth; the laziest, most comfortable sloth that ever lived. The annoying sunlight is almost a kind caress now, sent by the universe to warm up Louis' blankets while he lays his head in a pillow that feels like it was made out of the fluffiest clouds. Louis stretches each one of his fingers and then each one of his toes and maybe he was wrong, maybe he can go back to sleep again... It wouldn't even be that hard, he would just have to close his eyes, just for a minute... There's not much that he needs to do today, anyway and-

Louis jumps out of the bed because he's an irresponsible piece of shit and there's no trace of sleep in his body anymore and the sunlight is back to being nothing but this annoying light that interrupted Louis' dreams and thank fuck it did. Louis starts moving his blankets and his pillow frenetically, trying to find his phone but it's not on his bed, so he drops to his knees to check if it's underneath it and it isn't there either. Shit. The next step is to look under some of his clothes that are lying on his bedroom floor - Louis' bedroom is this perfectly organized mess that only he could understand, thank you very much - and he simply can't find it. Not on the bed; not under the rug. There's nothing but dust on the pockets of his trackies; there's nothing underneath the armchair but The Bag.

\- Where the f- 

With his knees hurting a bit, Louis stands up irritated and heads straight for the half-open curtains. He wants to spread them wide open, letting all the sunlight in, hoping that it keeps doing its thing, its useful thing, like waking Louis up, and maybe illuminating Louis' way to his cellphone. Just like a flashlight. A kind flashlight sent from the sky, helping Louis not to lose his job. He's almost touching the curtain's navy-blue fabric when he sees it. His cellphone. On his writing desk. Yayyyyy! Louis runs to it and immediately unlocks it and it has almost 3% of battery left - not so yay, then - but, when he checks the clock, it reads 11:59am and that's absolutely perfect because-

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

Louis squeals embarrassingly and almost drops his phone on the floor, but he doesn't and that's all that matters right now. On his cellphone screen, it reads: "12PM: WAKE THE FUCK UPPPPP". That's how well Louis knows himself. He knew he would sleep until noon, he knew he would need an alarm clock and he knew it would have to be on the highest possible volume, with the most scaring ringtone Louis ever heard. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. It sounded like an explosion was about to occur and death was imminent. What the fuck, right? The squeal he may or may not have made earlier while holding the screaming phone, seconds after having woken up, is completely acceptable. It's admirable even. Better blokes would have screamed, Louis is sure, screamed and dropped the phone. Not Louis, though. No. Louis is the best. With a small, proud smile on his face, Louis turns the alarm clock off and lets himself take a deep breath.

Louis has always strongly defended the idea that noon is the perfect time to wake up. 12 o clock. Exactly half of the day. 12 hours gone, 12 hours to go. The perfect equilibrium. And the universe seems to agree with him, after all.

- Thanks, universe! How does it feel to be right? \- Louis shouts.

Well, that or Louis is simply a well-trained ninja, with a perfect perception of the passage of time, hours, minutes and seconds, who woke up a minute before he was supposed to just as a charm. Just to keep things interesting. So, a fun, well-organized ninja, whose sleep schedule works more correctly than a clock. Yeah, Louis is a ninja, that's the perfect explanation.

He plugs his phone into his charger - in a ninja way, obviously - and opens his group text with Jack and Melissa. The group is called "Charlie's Angels", a name they both swear Louis picked while drunk. Louis doesn't believe them. Louis writes:

- heyyyy fuckers we're still up for 01pm right?

Jack's answer comes almost immediately:

\- why r u asking us, if ur gonna be late anyways??

And then, Melissa's:

\- Meet you at the side entrance, boss

And then, Jack again:

\- shit, forgot about that, yeah boss sure

And then, Melissa one more time:

\- Careful jack, peaches may fire you xoxo

Melissa calls Louis "Peaches" as a nickname for his bottom. Louis doesn't really like to explain because it makes him seem vain, but it's just the truth. He has a big butt ("beautiful", according to Harry), he knows, he's proud of it. That's it.

The texts make Louis laugh because Louis is not their boss; no, no way. All the three of them - Louis, Jack and Melissa - are at the exact same level of hierarchy at work. They all work for Reggie. Reginald Doyle, more like. The sole owner of The Lighthouse. On last month's edition of FDF (Food&Drink&Fun, the most respected newspaper for local entertainment; basically, a huge deal for a place like Reggie's), The Lighthouse was classified as "The best live music bar in the whole town". They printed real testimonies from real regular clients of the bar and there were lots of "Worth checking it out" and "Where I spend my every Thursday for years now" and "Best service in the whole UK". The bar received 5 stars after the whole evaluation conducted by the FDF's team and it was great; extremely rewarding for Reggie and for the three of them as well. Louis and Melissa even framed the newspaper page and gave it to Reggie for his birthday. When Jack arrived at The Lighthouse that day, only a bit late for his shift, Louis, Melissa and Reggie were toasting, drinking down a considerable part of The Lighthouse's booze inventory. Jack immediately joined them. Louis remembers nothing but the headache and the hangover from the day after. He regrets nothing.

- shut up idiots and thank u so much, you guys saved my lifeeeee

Louis is proud of his job, really is. Melissa and Jack are proud of their as well, Louis thinks. Kind of proud, at least. Melissa Hunt is only a couple years older than Louis, married, extremely beautiful and completely obsessed with music. Louis' playlists nowadays are basically a mix of Harry's and Melissa's favorite songs and he simply swings from one style to another, both equally perfect. She has playlists for every possible daily scenario - "Walking down the street"; "Raining"; "Gym"; "Dancing alone in my room" - and, more than once, Louis caught himself listening to her "Makeup playlists" and moving his head to the beat. That's another thing Melissa is an expert in: she could be a professional makeup artist, if only she was given the right opportunities in life and had a bit more dedication. Sometimes, when he's bored, Louis even lets her test her makeup abilities on him, like a Guinea pig. "That's what friends are for, Mel", he once told her. She appreciated the gesture so deeply that last time Louis visited her, she had bought a foundation specifically for him since hers, made for dark brown skin, limited her creative options for Louis' face art. The playlist she made for that particular makeup session was the best she ever made. "I'm glad you like it, peaches". On that night, they shared a couple of margaritas and Melissa painted Louis' nails and tried to teach him how to box braid her hair while they gossiped about Luke, Melissa's husband. Some comments about Harry might have come up as well, Louis isn't sure if he used the words "soulmate" or "masterpiece" or "daydream". It doesn't matter. Louis told her how happy he was with the last music competition they hosted at the bar and that's when she told him that she was only working at The Lighthouse for the music, for the live music, and that if it ever got boring, she would switch jobs in a heartbeat. When she felt that her honesty made Louis a bit sad, she added: "Lou, the job is temporary, but we don't have to be, yeah?" Louis hugged her. He considers her a friend. Not just a work friend, like he considers Jack.

Jack Cook is the most redheaded person Louis has ever seen in his life, and that includes Jack's seven younger brothers, almost as equally redheaded. Jack also is, easily, the whitest. Louis truly worries about the kid during the summer. Jack's skin is covered in freckles everywhere, especially on his face, and when he smiles, he always reminds Louis of a dangerous bobcat, even when he is mostly harmless. Jack did try to kiss Melissa once, though, before she gave him a slap on his face. So, maybe not absolutely harmless. Still, whenever Louis remembers the slap, he can't help but laugh at the sound it made on Jack's dotted cheek, the sound perfectly engraved into Louis' brain. SHPÁ. Louis doesn't bring the topic up, though - it would be a bit awkward after all - and neither does Jack, and Louis doesn't think Melissa told Luke about it, anyway, so Louis is left laughing alone at the sound he can't forget. SHPÁ. Jack is a skinny lad, but Louis knows he works out like crazy and the only place in his body where all the workout effort really shows is on his really strong - and really white - arms. Not that Louis notices all that much, mostly is just Melissa that comments about it with him. If Louis finds it a bit weird that she keeps monitoring Jack's progress in the gym, Louis never mentions. Ok, he may mention it once or twice. Only to mess with Melissa. Although Louis suspects that Jack's attraction for her is a bit deeper than it appears on the surface, Melissa is not the only girl Jack wanted to shag. He's obsessed with the holy trinity of laddy behaviour: alcohol and parties and, honestly, ladies (even when he doesn't really awaken a mutual interest in the other part involved). It's been a while since Louis hung out with him after work. The last time they did, it was in a shitty club with cheap drinks and the whole thing is barely a blur in Louis' memory. Jack swears that when the sun was almost rising, the following dialogue happened:

Police officer (later known as Sheriff Elliott, Reggie's brother-in-law): "Where do you live, kid?"

Tipsy Louis (later recognized as Wasted Louis, a common consequence of too much cheap tequila mixed with too little self-respect): "Witzh me mom"

Sheriff Elliott: "Where does your mom live?"

Wasted Louis: "Witzzh me"

Sheriff Elliott: "And where do you all live, kid?"

Wasted Louis: "We tzzwo live togetherz"

Sheriff Elliott: "Look, kid, I don't know what sort of game you're playing here, but you should get your shit together because-"

Wasted Louis: "Well, Mr. Offizcer, if that'z even your real name, what I think iz that you should fucking-"

They spent the night in jail.

Jack's mom only saved them the next morning, and the only words Louis ever told her were "Thank you, Miss Cook". Louis never wants to see her again. When she was pulling up in front of Louis' house, Jack decided it would be a good idea to walk Louis to his door. Louis didn't really understand why at first since Louis is no damsel in distress that needs to be walked to his own front door, thank you very much, but as he was fishing for his keys out of his back pocket - still hangover enough to forget about their hiding spot beneath the pottery vase - Jack had asked him:

\- Hey, do you remember that blonde bird?

Louis was speechless.

\- Do you? The one I hooked up with it? Smoking hot...

- No...? 

\- Shit, wanted to ask you how big her tits were, was hoping you would remember.

\- That's really a thing for you, mate, isn't it? Hooking up with strangers? 

Jack looked at Louis like Louis was incredibly stupid and he was just now finding it out. After his answer, Louis felt like he was a bit stupid too.

\- Why do you think I even work at The Lighthouse, Louis?

So, Louis thinks the three of them are proud of their jobs, yeah, but for different reasons, maybe. Maybe that's a better way to put it, different interests. All Louis knows is that he is the only one willing to really work his ass off for it and Reggie seems to have noticed it, which made Louis so, so glad.

One night, after Louis had just finished his shift and was heading for the employee's locker room, Reggie stopped him and asked him if they could have a small chat in Reggie's office. Louis said yes with a smile, even if he considered the possibility of Reggie actually firing him for a second. The job was, and it still is, really important for Louis. Important and fun. Louis truly considers it almost as a pastime: he gets to meet new people; he gets to listen to new music; he occupies his nights (leaving less free time for his mind to wander into bad, lonely places); and he keeps busy enough so he doesn't eat more than he should. It's the perfect deal. He also gets paid for it and the wage means that there's a possibility of going away someday, when it's right. No Lighthouse meant no fun, no music, no money; only loneliness. That was all Louis thought about while following Reggie through the employee's hallway. The chance of losing it all made his chest tightened a bit.

When they reached Reggie's office, though, Reggie started off with an apology:

\- I'm truly sorry that I'm keeping you here after working hours, Louis, but I feel that this is important.

Louis nodded in the most professional way he could think of (if such a thing as a professional nod exists, Louis isn't really sure; but it worked anyway).

\- It's ok, Reggie, I was only heading home, anyway. I can stay a few extra minutes. 

Reggie smiled a close-lipped smile at Louis, significant and full of appreciation, as if he was honestly proud of Louis, proud of Louis' answer, and for a fraction of a second, a fraction so insignificant that it didn't even register in Louis' conscience, Louis thought about his father. Subconsciously, thought about paternal love.

\- Ok, son.

Reggie nodded professionally (see? This sort of thing exists).

\- I won't keep you here long, anyway. I'm sure you've heard that Chloe is leaving us by the end of the year.

Chloe Wells, The Lighthouse's current manager, is a tall brunette who wears big pink glasses and smells a bit like musty cigarettes. She's hard-working and moody, in Louis' opinion. Also mean. And bossy. Her curly hair meets the end of her spine and Louis never once saw her tie it up and it gives Louis a bit of a bad impression. Louis doesn't really talk to her after the incident where he accidentally - really, honest to God, accidentally - drank a Coke she left in the employee's fridge. He didn't know it was hers. He apologized! Chloe didn't care. She gave him the stinky eye for weeks, still does to this day, and also placed him in the worst possible shifts. Over one can of Coke. She's revengeful. Revengeful and nerdy since, apparently, she's going to King's College. Louis' King's College. But Louis really doesn't like to think about the reason why she's leaving her manager post, otherwise he will get grumpy and jealous and he doesn't want to, not when he's got his own thing going. Who needs King's College when he is a king himself? Ha-ha. Louis makes jokes instead of crying. He loves that about himself.

- I heard, yeah. 

\- The manager position will be vacant after that and I think you're the most qualified here, Louis.

Louis can't help the way his mouth falls open.

- Reggie, I- 

\- I think you are, but I need to be sure, son.

Louis nods and it's not professional, it's anxious and excited.

\- The Battle of the Bands will be on the 27th this month, yeah? And it's going to be on you. The whole event. The planning, all the invitations, the guest list, setting up the salon. Is this ok for you?

The Battle of the Bands is the monthly event they host at The Lighthouse, where different bands sign up to sing their original songs about one specific theme and then the drunken public votes and one band ends up as the winner. The trophy is a package: £500, one bottle of whatever booze the band chooses and a chance to perform and compete at the annual Battle of the Bands on December. Even though it's a monthly event, it feels like the first time every month; there's always a new setback, new challenges, too many people, too little time, chaos. The Lighthouse always gets crowded on the day of the event, to the point where not everyone can get in the bar and there needs to be security at the door at least for the first hours. The Battle of the Bands is also responsible for a huge part of their revenue, so it is a pretty huge thing that Reggie is trusting in Louis' hands. Louis feels nervous. Nervous and appreciated.

\- It's more than ok, Reggie. Thank you. It will be an honor. I really appreciate the opportunity and I promise I'll do my best. 

\- I'm sure you will, son.

Reggie shook Louis' hand in the same way he did when he first hired Louis and it felt like Louis had reached a new step in his professional life, even if he hadn't completed it yet. It felt like progress.

So, today - October 27th - The Lighthouse will present its first Battle of the Bands completely organized by Louis Tomlinson. Well, not completely. Louis obviously asked Melissa and Jack to help him with the whole thing and they have been calling Louis their boss ever since. It's a joke Louis pretends to hate it, but really, how could he? The three of them are going to be the first ones to arrive at The Lighthouse and the last ones to leave and everything will be perfect, Louis is sure of it. Especially considering his plans for after the event. When the Battle of the Bands is over, after everything has gone perfectly well, Reggie will be proud of Louis and Louis will have proven he has the abilities required to become the new manager. Louis will also be really tired. Exhausted. That's why he plans on kissing Harry until the world makes sense again. Just as a celebration. He first invited Harry to the event, actually, but Harry couldn't make it, so Louis had no choice but to invite him to his house after it. Harry accepted because he's almost as easy for Louis as Louis is for him. Louis loves his plans for the day. Speaking of which, Louis picks up his phone again, closes his group text and opens a new text to Harry:

\- good morning sunshine 

He sends it, followed by another one:

- just realized it's noon and you're prolly awake since like shit o'clock, so what i meant to say was: hi sunshine im up 

Harry is a slow typer. Louis continues.

- was thinking about grabbing us some wine for tonight, any preferences? 

Louis rereads his message and he's a terrible host. Shit.

\- i can grab food too!! sorry!! only thought about the drinks because you know how i am but doest mean im not eating dont worry!!!! and like i can drink while you eat, i wouldnt mind it and it would actually be better, not that i need to be drunk for tonight because i rlly rlly dont and i already miss ur face btw and- 

It's a mess. Louis stops typing and deletes the whole thing.

- i can get you some food as well. will you be hungry, bambi? 

Perfect.

Louis uses the time he knows it will take until Harry texts him back by getting ready for the first part of his day. He leaves his phone charging and takes a bath, drinks lots of water and even eats the half an apple he left for himself in the fridge in case of emergencies; the word "calories" almost doesn't cross his mind. Since Louis doesn't really have much time until he has to leave the house, he decides to let his hair dry naturally, sweeping across his forehead. He looks out the window and after checking the weather, decides to grab himself a scarf, just in case, and his big lavender hoodie, the one he got himself a while ago, in a time when he didn't have the pleasure of receiving the cuddles he does now. It feels like a different century. The hoodie is soft as a cuddle, warm like a hug. It's mainly a substitute for Harry, when he's not with Louis for whatever stupid reason. When Louis puts it on, it stops mid-tight, but it almost reaches his knees. He wishes Harry could see him right now; Harry loves him in baggy clothes. Curly freak.

When Louis finally checks his phone again, there are 2 messages waiting for him.

\- Really need to talk to you later today peaches, whenever you can. Nothing bad tho just talk xoxoxo see you soon

Melissa texted him in private, not in their group text. Weird. Ok. The second one is the one he was waiting for:

- Morning, boo. Are you already at The Lighthouse? Is there anything I can do to help? About the wine, I don't mind, but yes, I'll probably be hungry. Not 100% sure, though. When are you even going to find the time to buy those things today? Aren't you supposed to be busy, Mr. Manager? Miss you. x 

Harry texts in the way that other people write emails. Louis loves it.

\- dont call me thatttttt its bad luckkk!!! not manager........yet ;) 

Louis adds:

- was going to stop by at the maplewood around 6pm 

Maplewood is a small convenience store, close to The Lighthouse, even closer to Louis' home, owned by a sweet old lady named Margareth. Well, at least Louis thinks she's sweet. They never really talked to each other and Louis literally never heard her voice, only knows her name from her small name tag; but she's always there, whenever he stops by, and always gives him a sweet smile while he pays for his groceries. Therefore, sweet. A sweet old lady. As cute as she is to Louis, though, with her wrinkled eyes and yellow teeth, that's not the main reason for Louis' loyalty to the Maplewood; it's not why he's being a faithful client of the store. Louis prefers the Maplewood because it's relatively close to his house, sure, and it's cheap, not to mention the diversity of products it offers; but most importantly, Margareth, with her kind smile, is completely unbothered by whatever Louis decides to buy and Louis used to buy a lot of concerning shit. Ridiculous amounts of alcohol, for example. Or, Louis would stop by, red-cheeked, quickly searching for condoms. Margareth would give nothing but her sweet smile. Not one judging look. Even when Louis was obsessed with buying laxatives during a worse phase than this one now, praying for it to make him thinner, she didn't bat an eye. Louis likes the anonymity of the Maplewood, even when he's only planning on buying wine and crackers tonight.

\- what food should i get you my hungry lion? 

- I think I'd rather go with you, actually. Will you let me enjoy your company this afternoon? 

\- theres nothing id rather do 

\- Then, it's a date. xx 

\- its not a date curly wtf its grocery shopping stop being lazy with our dates 

Harry's never lazy with their dates.

- I'll meet you at 6pm at The Lighthouse for our date. Be ready. x 

\- youre ridiculous 

\- 6pm, Louis. 

- ill be late on purpose 

\- I know. 

Louis hates him.

\- By the way, I can't wait to see your face. Miss kissing your lips as well. x 

- i wont let youuuuuuuuu 

\- Oh, yes, you will. xx 

Louis can't contain the small smile that spreads across his face. He doesn't really want to. Somehow, his plans for the day just got even better. More Harry-time.

He screams at the ceiling again, has to:

\- Thanks, universe! 

❥

In his baggy lavender hoodie, Louis leaves his bedroom, climbs down the stairs and, reaching the kitchen, notices a small piece of paper sitting on the table, one he didn't see before. It has his mother's calligraphy on it. " _Two shifts today, Lou! I'll be home from 4pm to 4am. Let me know if you need anything. Love, Mom_ ". Louis takes the pen that sits next to the piece of paper and draws a heart on it, and also a happy face, just so she will know that Louis read her message. He knows how much his mother works; crazy hours, changing schedules and not-so-happy patient stories to tell. Actually, very sad patient stories to tell. It's an extremely demanding job, being a nurse, and Louis doesn't think he could ever make it himself. He's too sensitive, sentimental. He would probably emotionally exhaust himself right in the first few weeks on the job, crying with every lost patient, unable to comfort their families and deal with their sadness. He thinks her detachment sort of helps, in that way, his mother's. It must be easier comforting a family whose loved one just passed away if you're a bit too stuck in your head to be considered normal. You always have an escape route. It's like living two parallel stories, Louis thinks: one happening in real life and another in your head, both just as real as each other. If you happen to lose a patient in one of those stories, all you have to do is turn it down. Then, turn up the volume of your other story, the secret one, the one that's only yours, and drown yourself in memories you've collected through your life; all the while, maintaining a sad, respectful expression, nodding while comforting grieving relatives of the person lying cold on their hospital bed. Yeah, Louis thinks she chose the perfect job. She's a smart woman, Louis' mom. He also thinks she chose (more like was arbitrarily given) the perfect, perfect hours. At least for today. He and Harry will have the house for themselves, all alone after the Battle of the Bands, and Louis isn't expecting anything to happen, but he sort of is. He really, really is.

After leaving one more heart on the small piece of paper, Louis heads for the front door, sidesteps that ugly Persian carpet - no, never again - and leaves his house. He locks the front door and hides his key under the pottery vase. He can feel the wind of his cheeks and, looking around, spots a couple of leaves flying in the wind. It's a bit too cold for Louis' liking, but it's beautiful, in some sort of melancholic way. It's autumn, after all. Louis starts walking.

The Lighthouse isn't really far from Louis' house - which is another sweet perk of the job - and, for what feels like the first time in his life, Louis notices that he is perfectly on time. Another sign of the universe that this, the manager position, is meant to be Louis'. Yay. Louis starts to enumerate all the tasks he will have to do when he gets to The Lighthouse, going over the list again and again. He simultaneously tries not to work himself up, afraid of getting too nervous and messing everything up. He got this. Louis makes his way to the bar at a normal walking speed, even when he feels like he should be running there, and is still a good half a mile away when he spots Melissa, pacing in front of the bar, looking as anxious as Louis won't admit he feels. When Louis reaches her, he notices her box braids, her perfect makeup and her worried, apprehensive eyes.

\- Hey, Mel. You ok? 

She smiles, but the anxiety is still there somehow.

\- Hey, Peaches.

She checks her cellphone.

\- 10 minutes early, I'm proud of you.

\- Yeah, yeah... Thanks, Mel. It's kind of a big deal for me. 

\- Of course, it's a big deal, Lou. It would be a big deal for anyone, really...

It feels like Melissa selected her next words carefully, but settled for:

\- Hey, did you get my text?

\- Oh, I did! You wanna talk, yeah? Do you wanna do it now or...? 

\- It could be now, but let's get inside because it's kind of private, Peaches, and I really need you to be there for me cause-

And that's when Jack arrives. He looks muscular even in his white hoodie, pulled up over his short red, red hair. He's smiling and Louis is glad he's helping today. Really is.

\- Am I fired yet, boss?

Louis rolls his eyes just for show.

- Did you guys get the list I sent you? 

\- The one you sent us twice a day for the last two weeks? Yeah, I think we did, Peaches - It's Melissa who says it and Louis will have to remember to tell her to fuck off later, maybe during the serious conversation they are supposed to have and Jack interrupted. Maybe the conversation is about Jack, Louis thinks... Oh my god, is Melissa reciprocating Jack's feelings? Louis wishes Harry was here so they could gossip together.

\- I'm ignoring you, Mel. So, Jack, we have until 6pm, yeah? 

Melissa laughs.

\- Yes, Louis - Jack says.

\- And you know what you're supposed to do? 

\- Yes, boss - Jack again.

- And do you, Melissa? 

She looks at him exasperated. Louis never calls her Melissa, uses only nicknames.

\- Of course I do, Peaches. We've done this before, yeah? It will be perfect. You got this.

\- Yeah, Louis, we got this - Jack says and Louis knows he's being honest.

They don't do a group hug, but it's a close call.

Louis takes a deep breath and mentally prepares himself for the day ahead. Yeah, he's ready. It's going to be ok.

- Of fucking course we got this. We're Charlie's Angels for fuck's sake. 

Melissa and Jack smile and that's all Louis wanted; they are ready.

- Let's get to work, then. 

❥ 

Louis is sweating. Disgustingly sweating. Louis hates sweat.

- I'm not keeping it a secret, I'm just glad she won't be home, you know? 

\- I know what you mean, Peaches, it took me like a year to introduce Luke to my dad and I still think I should have done it later.

It's almost 3pm and the three of them have been working nonstop, preparing The Lighthouse for tonight. Melissa is currently on top of a portable stair, setting up the lighting for the stage. Louis has been mopping the saloon's floor for the last half an hour and Jack is cleaning up the lady's restroom. God bless Jack.

\- Yeah, I wanna introduce them someday, though. 

\- Oh, Peaches, you're so romantic. Can you feel butterflies in your belly?

Louis hates Melissa.

- I've been killing the butterflies with cigarettes and vodka. 

\- Don't say that, I know you like him.

\- Of fucking course I do, that's the problem. I hate when I like a boy because I lose my powers. 

Melissa laughs and Jack enters the salon, bringing an old vacuum cleaner Louis knows way too well (the noisy thing is probably older than the bar itself). Jack is wearing cleaning gloves, Louis notices, and Louis will have to find a way to steal them from him later. Sweaty, Jack smiles at the both of them before asking:

\- So, what topic are we discussing?

It's Melissa who answers:

\- Louis is getting laid tonight and we were discussing his mother's work schedule. So she won't be home, you know?

Melissa winks at Jack and he smiles. Louis lowers his eyes to the ground to give the two of them some privacy since that's apparently a thing now. Louis is slightly disgusted and also slightly concerned about Luke.

\- Oh, nice, mate. Nice. Getting laid.

Jack's comments are always so deep and profound, Louis envies his brain. Jack continues, though, unaware of how irreversibly his words have impacted Louis' life.

\- When is she going-

Louis stops mopping the floor just to turn around and look directly at Jack because he may be an oblivious fool but there's no way he's this ignorant.

- She? Who is this she? What could possibly have given you the impression that I am a heterosexual, mate? 

Melissa laughs and Louis continues.

\- I'm asking just so I won't ever do it again. 

Jack rolls his eyes at him and Louis doesn't understand.

\- I was talking about your mom, Louis, what the fuck?

Louis feels stupid.

\- When is she going back home, as in, when is your mother going back home? Are you and your boy gonna have the whole night?

Louis feels really stupid.

- Oh. 

Louis smiles at Jack sheepishly and Jack lets him get away with it as if the smile was Louis' apology. Louis goes back to mopping. Mopping and talking. Mopping, talking and sweating.

- So, it's not a huge thing, Melissa is just being stupid. Harry's been over tons of times it's just that... that I usually make him leave through the window, you know, and now he won't have to. 

\- You make him jump out of the window, Louis? - Jack asks while trying to plug in the old vacuum cleaner.

Louis nods and is about to explain that it isn't exactly a jump, per se, more like a strategic escape move, conducted with the assistance of a perfect hold in the foliage, when Jack continues:

\- So, he's really into you, then.

\- You have no fucking idea - Melissa murmurs from the top of the stair and Louis doesn't care what she says (except he really does, at least when it comes to Harry).

\- He plays by my rules, yeah. 

Melissa guffawed and Jack, sounded weirdly interested in Louis' love life, continued with his questions:

\- He's not coming to the Battle, though?

\- No, no. He can't make it, unfortunately. 

Louis knows that Harry will wait until his parents have fallen asleep to sneak out of his house and meet Louis at The Lighthouse. Louis is proud of him, Louis' sneaky boy.

\- You know what this means, right, Jack? - Melissa asks while climbing down the stairs; stage lights perfectly ready for tonight - Means that Louis will be an annoyingly little prick because he will have to wait until the whole thing is over and he hates waiting.

Louis thinks that he does hate waiting, yeah, but if it's waiting for Harry, he will wait.

Instead of answering, Jack manages to turn on the vacuum cleaner somehow and turns around to look at the both of them like he just invented fire.

\- It fucking works, then - It's what it sounds like Jack is shouting, over the loud noise coming from the vacuum - Bloody thing.

Jack turns it off, then, bringing the saloon back to silence for half a second before saying: "I'm gonna go back upstairs, then". He sounds happy that the thing is working, like he was the one to fix it somehow. Louis is happy that he thinks that. Ignorance is bliss.

It's only when Jack has left the room that Melissa speaks again.

\- Peaches.

\- Yeah? 

\- I'm gonna try to say this in a polite way, ok?

\- Ok. 

\- You're acting like this isn't a big deal...

Louis already crossed his arms in front of his chest.

\- Yeah? 

\- Don't act like I don't know that this is the first time he's sleeping over.

- Uhm. 

\- And I don't wanna act all protective here, but-

- Go ahead, Mel. I will answer whatever you wanna ask. 

Melissa takes a deep breath.

\- Do you love him?

Louis thinks "He's my sun and my world turns around him". Louis is looking straight into her eyes when he says:

\- I'd follow him across the universe. 

She nods. She looks happy. Good. Louis is happy too.

\- We still need to talk, Peaches. For me. Not for you, I mean.

\- Whenever you want, Mel. 

They smile at each other and in the silence, Louis decides that this is what friendship is.

They go back to work.

❥ 

It's 4:34pm when Melissa appears out of nowhere and pulls a distracted Louis by the back of his hoodie. She pulls him hard and Louis squeals from the scare and she ignores him - rude - and just keeps pulling him through the bar, until they reach the men's restroom. After pulling Louis in, Melissa closes the restroom door behind them and Louis has no idea what's going on.

- Mel, you're a lovely lady, but I'm afraid I'm just too gay for whatever this is and- 

\- Louis, shut up.

Louis shuts up.

\- Ok, can we have our big talk now?

Melissa is clearly nervous and anxious and Louis still has no idea what's going on.

\- Oh, Melissa, you're so kind. I'm glad you're giving me so much choice in the matter after literally dragging me to the worst restroom we could have possibly- 

\- Louis, oh my fucking God! Would you please just-

\- Ok, ok. Sorry, Mel. Just kidding. Go ahead, what is it? 

Instead of speaking, Melissa just shoves a small object into Louis' hand.

\- Don't look at it!

\- I won't. 

\- Don't look at it until I say you can.

\- Ok. 

\- Ok.

They stay silent while Melissa takes (tries to take) deep breaths and Louis holds an unidentified object in his hands and the whole thing is extremely weird.

\- Ok.

\- Ok? 

\- Ok, you can look at it, Peaches.

Louis opens his hand and looks at it. He doesn't know how to react at first. There, in the palm of his hand, sits a pregnancy test. A positive pregnancy test. Suddenly, everything makes sense because Melissa was acting weird before and texting Louis privately instead of texting their group with Jack and she was also winking at Jack before and Jack tried to kiss her that one time and-

\- Is it Jack's?! 

SHPÁ.

- What the fuck, Mel? 

Louis doesn't think he has ever been slapped on the face before. He feels like he deserved it.

\- What the fuck, Louis?!

She sounds angry. Louis may have fucked up.

\- How the fuck would it be Jack's?! It's Luke's for fuck's sake, what are you even talking about? Did you think I cheat?!

\- Sorry. Sorry, Mel. Sorry. I wasn't thinking.

Louis has no idea how he is going to justify his question. No idea. Maybe if he had gossiped with Harry earlier, he wouldn't be in such a mess. Harry is usually extremely wise about people's secret relationships. He always knows what's up and what really, really isn't. Shit. Louis doesn't want to lie to her, so he doesn't.

- I don't know! You guys were acting weird and then you texted me privately and I do realize, as I'm telling you this, that it doesn't make sense at all but still... I felt like I had just solved a mystery. A baby mystery. Oh my God, Mel, you're pregnant!

Melissa looks at him like he's stupid. Maybe he is.

\- Yes, I'm pregnant.

- And it's Luke's.

\- And it's Luke's.

\- Why are you freaking out, then? Mel, this is great, isn't it?

Melissa looks at Louis seriously then and this is the closest Louis has ever seen from her crying face. Louis hugs her immediately and doesn't let go.

- What is it, Mel? What's going on?

She hugs Louis back just as tight.

\- I'm not sure I want it, Peaches.

Well, ok. That's ok too.

\- Why are you saying that, Mel?

\- It's too soon and I am 100% not ready for this.

- I don't think we're ever ready, Mel.

\- But, like...

She sniffs and they are still hugging against the cold door of the men's restroom Jack just cleaned. Louis will stay here for as long as she needs him.

\- What if I'm a terrible mother and-

\- You won't be.

\- I could be, though. I'm lazy sometimes and I'm too young and unstable and-

\- Mel.

\- Yeah?

\- Have you told Luke yet?

\- If I tell him, I'm gonna have to keep it.

\- Oh, ok, ok.

\- Now I realize I sound like a crazy bitch who's gonna go through with an abortion without even telling the father.

\- No. None of that. You sound confused. Confused and scared, which is perfectly acceptable and normal and ok. It's ok. I do think you should be having this conversation with Luke, though, if you want, obviously, I think it would be the right thing to do.

She nods and they finally let go of the hug. Louis holds both of her hands.

\- I would have to give up so much, Peaches. So much.

\- Yes, Mel. Yes, you would.

Louis thinks about his father and thinks about abandonment, even if he won't ever say a word about it. He thinks Melissa sees it in his eyes anyway, even when she doesn't really know the full story. Louis thinks she understands.

\- That's why you should consider it carefully, yeah? There's nothing wrong with making a decision that's best for you. You just... have to really think it through. The best person to think it through with, though, I'm afraid is the person you married.

Melissa is back to nodding.

\- Everything's gonna be alright, whatever you choose. I don't think Luke would ever force his choice on you both, yeah? But let me know if you think he would, I will hire an army to beat him up and we can raise the little bean you and me or, like, say goodbye to the little bean together... Sorry, you know what I meant.

Melissa laughs a wet laugh and Louis is a bit relieved. Her laugh is a good sign.

\- When did you get so wise, Peaches?

\- All I ask in return is that if there's a certain clinic we need to visit, you let me know the appointment's date so I can come with you. And if there's not a clinic to visit and if the little bean turns out to be a girl, you name it Louise.

Melissa laughs louder than before.

\- I could never do that! Your ego would explode and you know it.

- I'm not egocentric, Melissa.

She looks at him like she doesn't believe him. She knows nothing.

- But I'll admit that if you did name the little bean Louise, I would be forced to kidnap her and raise her as my own. My mini me.

\- Are you just confessing to an evil plan to kidnap my future daughter, who doesn't even really exist yet, Louis?

Louis nods.

\- I'm gonna have you locked up, Louis Tomlinson, eternity in jail for the kidnapping of unborn babies.

Louis laughs with her and then adds:

- I'm kidding. I can't wait not to have kids and spend all my money on myself.

\- Oh, shut up, Peaches.

- What?!

\- Shut up! I know you want, like, 14 kids.

\- Do not.

\- Yeah, you do. Kids all around the house, huge family, a husband...

\- I'm a lonely wolf, Melissa, you wouldn't understand my soul.

\- Shut up, you're literally going to be the most family dad ever.

She's laughing like it's a joke but they both know it isn't.

- You really think so?

Melissa looks at him with kindness in her eyes.

\- Of course, Lou. Of course. You're going to get everything you want. I just know it. Trust me.

Louis hopes she's right.

\- Not to mention, you're practically ready to settle down. Don't think I can't read you, Peaches.

\- What are you even on about now?

\- You're ready and you know it.

- And who told you that?

\- Your eyes. Anytime you see a baby or anytime we talk about babies, really. Your eyes were shining just from holding my pregnancy test, Louis, for fuck's sake. So, I just know. Your eyes literally sparkle, Peaches. All we have to do is talk about babies, huge families or, must I add, more recently, Harry.

Louis doesn't fight her.

She's not wrong. It's the most perfect future Louis can think of.

❥

They somehow manage to check off all the items in Louis' list of tasks, perfectly preparing the bar for the night. Everything is cleaned and everything's ready and that's it. They did it. Louis is glad and also tired, but mostly, he's hyped up for the event. His excitement balances the exhaustion out.

Louis thanks Melissa and Jack before leaving The Lighthouse; Melissa, with a kiss on her cheek that means more than it appears on the surface, a kiss that is meant as a promise of protection and as a wish of good luck and as a pledge of allegiance to their friendship for what comes next, whatever it is, and Jack with a strong, very straight-like handshake. They are bros.

Louis leaves the bar by its side entrance and, as soon as he reaches the front of The Lighthouse, he is met with the most pleasant view he has ever seen. It feels like he's entering a different universe, made out of only his best dreams. Harry is leaning against the brick wall, legs crossed in the height of his ankles, head tilted up and eyes closed. His hair is a darker shade of brown due to the nightfall lightness, just as messy and curly as any other day, and Louis can already smell the citric sweetness from his tangerine shampoo. It's lovely. Harry looks like a relaxed angel and Louis doesn't think he deserves it.

\- How did the universe come up with you?

Harry immediately opens his eyes and stands up straight, clearly startled, but his eyes soften as soon as they meet Louis' and Harry gives him a sheepish smile.

\- Hey, beautiful.

Louis can't go another second without touching him, so he doesn't. Louis closes the distance between them and pecks Harry's lips once. Harry's hands go straight to Louis' waist.

\- Wait a second. Are you the famous manager of The Lighthouse? Is there any way I can get an autograph?

Louis closes his eyes instead of rolling them.

- Yes, Harold, I'm kissing autographs into your lips right now.

Harry laughs and the air that comes out of his nose meets Louis' upper lip.

\- These are way better autographs than I was expecting.

- Yeah?

\- Yeah, figured you'd be kind of an ass with all the fame, you know?

Louis blows air into Harry's mouth as well.

\- What can I say? I'm a humble lad.

Harry kisses Louis one more time, sweet and quick, before letting go of Louis' waist and grabbing his hand. Harry intertwines their fingers and Louis can see the way Harry's eyes sparkle and the way Harry takes a little longer than acceptable subtly analyzing the size difference between their hands; a small, possessive smile on his face. Louis doesn't mention it. Louis likes it too, as much as he won't admit to anyone. Anyone but Harry, obviously, and even Harry himself usually has to extract the confession out of Louis with torture (meaning, tickles and sometimes kisses; it's a painful process).

Slowly, they start walking towards the Maplewood and, around them, dead autumn leaves fly with the wind. Louis feels like he's in the centre of a hurricane, he feels like he's in a movie starring no one but himself and the love of his life.

\- Yes, you are. Extremely humble and extremely kind, especially for the superstar manager that you are.

Louis smiles at the ground and Harry squeezes his hand once, as a way of saying that he's only joking, but that the thought behind the joke still stands. Harry always has this phenomenal ability to make every single thing lighter and somewhat funnier and, simply, better. Louis looked his whole life for someone who would make him feel this way. Suddenly, looking at Harry's side profile, curly hair dancing in the wind, all Louis sees are colors. The pink on Harry's cheeks, the brown of the leafless trees they are passing by on the other side of the road, the cherry red of Harry's lips mixed with the burnt orange from all the dead leaves on the floor, the greenest green of Harry's eyes. This is Louis' masterpiece. Louis' chest overflows with the perception of how lucky Louis is, how incredibly lucky he has to be, not only to be able to witness such perfect work of art, but only to be able to share this life with Harry. Louis feels lucky enough only to be alive at the same time as Harry; can't even picture the idea of missing him by being born a couple of decades too early or too late. No. This was meant to be, Louis thinks. He gets to spend this life with Harry and that's what he will do. Harry makes Louis feel like he was born at just the right time. It's a good feeling.

\- Is everything ready for tonight, then?

- Can you believe we actually managed to set everything up? Like, the whole thing?

- Of course, I do, Lou. I told you.

Louis loves how Harry trusts him, always. Trust his abilities and sees potential in Louis. It makes Louis feel like he can do anything.

\- Jack and Mel helped, then?

\- They helped so much, Harry, you have no idea, they were like, perfect, I wouldn't have made it without them, really, no way. And they are calling me boss now, can you believe it?

\- They are calling you boss?

\- Yeah, why? Is it weird?

\- No. It's kind of sexy, actually.

- Sexy? Do you really think so?

\- Well, not with Mel and especially not with Jack calling you that, but it could be. In other contexts, I mean.

Louis wonders if there's any polite way to ask Harry to better explain the possible contexts where Louis being called boss is something sexy - and not funny like it is with Mel and Jack - but he's pretty sure he's got a good idea. He knows what Harry's talking about.

\- You know what I'm talking about.

The sound of Harry's voice startles Louis but he nods anyway, mouth dry.

- Yeah, yeah. I do.

Harry squeezes Louis' hand once again and, as they reach a pedestrian crossing, Harry looks both ways, even when this is a quiet street and there's no one here but the two of them, let alone any cars. Still, Harry takes his time making sure that it's safe to cross it and Louis chooses to just trust him. He doesn't check whether there are cars coming or not, he just waits for another squeeze on his hand that means it's ok to start walking again. It's a wonderful feeling to feel like he's being taken care of.

When they reach the other side of the street and turn the corner, passing in front of a small drugstore, Louis notices that they are not alone anymore. There's one more person here besides the two of them, facing the cold in this quiet street: a very beautiful, very pregnant lady. Her yellow sweater stretches up in front of her belly in sort of a cute way - at least Louis thinks so - and that's when he remembers:

\- Oh! I forgot! I got some news!

The beautiful pregnant woman visibly flinches when Louis shouts, which makes him feel really guilty, not guilty enough to apologize, but still. He's aware that sometimes he can be very loud. Harry always tries to convince Louis that his voice volume is endearing instead of annoying, so this is Louis trying to believe him. The pregnant lady - still beautiful while recovering from a scare - places her hand in her heart and looks at Louis like he's some sort of a crazy person while she starts to walk away, fast, and Louis is almost offended, but he decides not to mind. He got some big news to share.

\- You finally figured out how pretty you look in lavender?

Harry is silly. Louis likes it.

- Serious news, curly.

\- You're never wearing another color again.

\- Harry.

\- I'm joking, Louis. I wouldn't want to live in a world where I can't see you in that blue shirt of yours.

\- That's it. I'm not gonna tell you the news anymore.

- Stop, it's our gossip time. I know you can't resist it.

\- Shut up.

\- Is it gossip time?

Louis rolls his eyes. Maybe he really can't resist it.

- It's gossip time, Harold.

Harry squeals. Louis has never loved anything more.

\- Yay, I knew it! What happened? Tell me everything, don't leave out any details.

- Well, it's not really gossip this time, it's just like... Mel is pregnant.

Harry immediately whips his head around to look at Louis, his eyes big and curious.

\- Is this a good thing or...?

- It is, it is, sorry.

Louis realizes he might not have told Harry with the excitement he was planning to.

\- She just isn't sure if she wants to keep it or not and it got me thinking.

\- Oh?

\- Yeah, but she's young, you know, and-

\- It's not about age though, Lou.

\- Hm?

- It's not about age. I mean, when you know you know.

Louis wonders if this means that Harry knows, if he knows and wants it with Louis.

\- And do you?

\- Obviously, Lou.

\- Even as young as you are?

Harry's eyes are big and sincere, his lips red and wet against the cold. He looks like a dream.

\- Obviously.

Louis believes him, really does, and the thought is an explosion inside his heart.

\- I wanna do it right, though.

- I know you do.

It feels like a conversation too important to be this simple, but, at the same time, it feels like the perfect opportunity to be discussing the topic; the "future" topic, the "family" topic; the "will we be a family in the future?" topic. It feels right in a way that it only does when it's with Harry. It's shocking, but it's nothing new. Maybe someday Louis will get used to it, to the idea that maybe Harry was really made for him after all.

\- I mean, I wanna raise kids who won't have to recover from their childhood.

\- Then, we will.

And that's all they say for a while.

They walk hand in hand through the empty streets, crossing only a couple of people on their way (Louis doesn't scare away any of them, not like he did with beautiful-pregnant-lady), and the feeling of starring as the leading actor of the best romance movie ever made doesn't go away, not even when they reach the Maplewood. Opening the store's glass doors, Louis can see that Margareth is at the register, like she always is, and she gives him her usual sweet smile when they enter the store. She doesn't even look at Harry, that's how discreet she is. Louis likes Margareth.

Louis grabs a basket and makes his way to the wine section, Harry right beside him.

- Mel's afraid Luke will want to keep it anyway, without considering what she wants.

Harry stays silent, letting Louis vent.

\- But I still told her to talk to him anyway because, like, this is something they should work out together, right?

Harry nods.

\- Probably, baby. I mean, I don't know Luke, but I think she chose him for a reason, yeah?

\- Yeah, he's a nice guy, like, normal guy. Don't know what he thinks about babies, though.

Louis runs his finger through the different rows of wine bottles, looking at Harry the whole time. He only stops when Harry nods. Then, he reads the label of whatever wine Harry selected: "Mirabella: Brut Rosé".

\- Fancy, curly.

- I've been told I am a very posh boy indeed.

Louis places both bottles on their basket by himself, Harry apparently not keen on doing anything but watching Louis and following him through the hallways, hands behind his backs while he looks at the shelves.

- Do you think Luke is the main problem, then?

- No, I don't know. Not really. It's just that Mel usually gets this look where, I don't know, like she would rather be anywhere else than here, you know?

They are walking towards the food section, even when Louis doesn't recall consciously making that decision.

\- It's like she could just up and leave, from one second to the next.

- You get that same look too sometimes, you know?

Harry speaks so low that Louis isn't sure he was supposed to hear him.

\- Well, yeah, but never with you, curly. Never with you.

Harry looks at Louis as this information wasn't already obvious for him and that's unacceptable.

- No?

Unacceptable, really.

- Harry, please. When I am with you, there is nowhere else I'd rather be in the world, I swear, and you know I am a person who always wants to be somewhere else.

Harry smiles and in the middle of autumn, it's suddenly summer.

- Yeah?

\- Trust me, Bambi. Nowhere else.

Harry doesn't ask many questions after that. Instead, he just stops by different food shelves, the ones he considers appropriate and nutritious, and refuses to move until Louis picks at least one product out of each one of the shelves and places it on their basket. Louis hates him. By the end of their grocery shopping, they are buying wine, lettuce, cheese, crackers and apples (and bananas because apparently it's ok to pick up two items from the same shelf, as long as Harry is craving one of them; Harry's rules are absurd). It's way more than Louis would buy if he was alone.

Margareth, in her usual working position, cashier, checks them out at the cash register and the whole thing ends up being cheaper than Louis thought it would be and that's why when Harry reaches for his back pocket, Louis shakes his head. He got this. Harry rolls his eyes but doesn't say a word. Good. Louis doesn't receive an extra sweet smile from Margareth for his chivalry, but it's ok, it only makes Louis end up carrying their grocery all the way to his house just to prove a point. It's ok. Louis is a gentleman. Harry only tries to argue with him once during the way and after that, settles for letting Louis carry their shopping. He likes being pampered, Harry, even when he won't admit it; even when all he does is blink those huge green eyes slowly, seductively, like Louis wouldn't do everything in the world for him.

Before Louis can realize, they are reaching his home, Harry having insisted on taking him all the way here instead of heading back to his own house. They stop by the front door and Louis places their groceries on the floor so that he can pick up his key under the pottery vase.

\- So, you're gonna take a shower now-

\- Are you suggesting that I stink, Bambi?

Harry ignores him.

\- And get ready, yeah? What time do you have to be back at The Lighthouse again? Eight?

\- Eight.

\- Ok, perfect. And I'll meet you there as soon as I can.

Louis feels a bit nervous, thinking about everything that is supposed to happen tonight and what will it mean to his professional future. He's feeling small and insecure and that's why he says:

- Don't take too long.

Harry looks at Louis like he is the sweetest thing Harry has ever seen. Precious and fragile. It doesn't offend Louis, it makes him feel warm inside.

\- Please.

Harry smiles and shakes his head as if Louis is this big temptation Harry's trying to resist. Slowly, Harry places his hands on Louis' waist and his nose on Louis' neck. His breathing is warm and it gives goosebumps against Louis' skin, wherever he touches. Harry makes himself small to fit into Louis' body and Louis is the one who feels surrounded all over. Protected.

\- Promise I won't, Lou. Everything will be fine, I promise.

Louis nods, placing a kiss on Harry's throat, where he can reach it.

\- And if anything starts to go wrong, just think of me, yeah?

Louis laughs loudly.

\- Just think of you, is that your brilliant advice?

Harry places a sweet kiss to Louis' neck before standing up to his full height again. He's tall. And extremely handsome. Louis loves him. Harry has a smile on his lips, but when he speaks again, it's clear that he is not joking.

\- Yeah, just think of me. It will make things better, no matter how small they are, how big they are. It will help.

Somehow, in Harry's voice, it really feels that easy. It feels true.

\- Do you promise, Harold?

Louis asks him while holding a finger against his chest. Harry places his much bigger hand on top of Louis'. Louis pretends it doesn't make a shiver run down his spine. Harry smiles at him like he knows the truth anyway.

\- I do. I'll know if you are. Thinking of me, I mean, needing me. I will know.

- And will you think about me too, curly? Will you think about me then?

Harry snorts like Louis' question is absurd when it really, really isn't. Louis would love to know, actually. It is something he wonders about very often, many more times than he would like to admit, especially when he lies awake at night, alone and cold, missing all the things that only Harry could give him. Louis wonders "Does he think of me as often?", he thinks "Is he thinking about me now?", "Is it mutual?".

- Louis, please.

Harry says while shaking his head slowly in disbelief, smile the size of the universe. He looks predatory in a way, like he believes Louis is making him spell it out just to tease him and Harry's eyes are shining as if he's ready to attack Louis whenever he is done with his little game. Harry smiles like he thinks Louis is tempting him on purpose. Maybe Louis is. Who knows.

\- What?

\- Come on...

- What?!

\- You know I will. Obviously. All I do is think of you.

And isn't that the sweetest thing Louis has ever heard? Isn't Harry the sweetest boy? Louis' boy, all his. Louis is lucky.

\- Yeah?

\- Yes. Really yes. You're always in my mind, Lou.

- Well, and you're always in my heart, curly.

It happens in less than a second because Louis' game is over and Harry has held himself back enough. Harry grabs Louis hard by his lavender hoodie to pull him closer but immediately brings his hands up to Louis' cheeks when their chests touch. Harry kisses him hard, mouth open and lips wet. Louis can taste the stars inside his mouth and he never wants to taste anything else. Harry brings a hand to Louis' hair and tugs on it lightly, breathing hard through his nose and Louis feels dizzy. He runs his fingertips through Louis' neck and Louis shivers, but he wants more. Louis gets on his tiptoes and that's when Harry bites his bottom lip and Louis doesn't think about anything after that.

Too soon, Harry's kisses are becoming quicker, more well-behaved, and before Louis can object, Harry is pecking the corner of Louis' mouth and Louis' cheeks and he's saying "You're so, so sweet, baby"; and "Wanna taste you forever"; and "Gonna kiss you until our lips burn"; and "Tonight, yeah?".

Louis waits until Harry's completely out of sight to close his front door. His lips are sore and his heart is beating faster than it ever has and his tongue tastes sweet and it all feels right in a way it only feels when it's with Harry. He knows Harry is thinking about him too.

❥

The water is flaming hot against Louis' skin and his shampoo smells sweet like vanilla and the shower is the quickest, most efficient one he's ever taken. Louis is a competent lad. He's wrapped in the three different towels when he enters his bedroom - a dark red one around his head, a violet one around his shoulders and a teal one around his small waist, trying to escape the coldness - and he only lets the towels go when his outfit for the night is perfectly selected, sitting on top of his bed: black button-down dress shirt (Louis will roll up the sleeves a little, so it looks more casual, fancy chic) and skinny jeans. After checking himself in the mirror for what feels like a thousand times, he decides that it's perfect. The outfit's perfect, Louis looks good. Appealing, even.

Louis is styling his hair in the bathroom mirror, going for a caramel swirl on his fringe, when a text pops up on his phone. He runs back to his bedroom to grab it. On the phone screen, it reads:

\- Peaches, need a ride? I can pick you up in 5

Melissa is a perfect, perfect angel.

\- yessssss mel thank you so much 

Quickly, Louis decides to go with a slightest messier hairstyle than he had originally planned. It's going to be ok. Messy chic. He sprays some perfume, the one Harry likes the most, and leaves his bedroom. Before climbing down the stairs, Louis heads to his mother's bedroom, only to make sure that she's still sleeping and that she won't be worried about him leaving without saying goodbye. Not for the first time in his life, Louis confirms his suspicions: he's a polite boy; well-behaved.

Louis knocks once on his mother's bedroom door and whispers:

- Mom?

Her answer comes almost immediately, right after a noise that Louis is pretty sure was a snore cut short.

\- Louis? Are you there, sweetie? Is everything ok?

Her voice is a bit hoarse, she sounds like she just woke up, and Louis feels terrible because the last thing he wanted was to interrupt her sleep (he remembers this morning's sunlight bitterly and doesn't wish the same fate for his mother; no broken sleep). Maybe Louis can be his mother's annoying sunlight; Harry already calls him sunshine all the time. Now that Louis already did wake her up, though, he might as well continue, finish what he came here to do.

\- I'm leaving now, mom, for work. Sorry to wake you, I-

\- No, no. Thanks for letting me know, Lou. Just a second, baby, let me just-

Louis hears her bed creaking and, right after, her slow footsteps. She's wearing her slippers, Louis can tell just from the noise they make against her hardwood floor. She wasn't supposed to be up, she wasn't supposed to be literally standing up, walking to her bedroom door just because Louis woke her up. Louis feels like a terrible son, like this annoying sunlight. He really didn't want to mess up with her - already extremely complicated - sleeping schedule, but it's too late now. He guesses there's nothing he can do but wait.

When she opens her bedroom door, she opens it just a crack, only a bit, and, even with the small available space to actually see her, Louis notices how tired she is. The shade of the dark circles beneath her eyes match the tone of her pajamas. See? Made for fashion campaigns. She looks as delicate as always and a bit cold, all wrapped up in herself, but she doesn't look nearly as disinterested as she usually does.

\- Hey, Lou.

Her eyes are kind and sleepy.

\- Is it today? The big thing at work?

God, Louis didn't think she would even remember. He should give her more credit.

\- Yeah, mom. It's now, actually.

She yawns and, somehow, curls up even further into herself. A small galaxy of the prettiest atoms, compressed into one single spot in the universe. Louis is lucky he gets to witness it.

\- Are you nervous, boo?

\- A bit, mom, yeah...

\- Good. That's how we know it's a good thing, yeah?

Louis nods and she places her open hand in his cheek, a caress, and Louis loves her so much, loves it when she's here with him. Her skinny hand is cold and soft against Louis' skin and there's a soft hint of shea butter scent in the air, coming from her hand cream, and in that moment, Louis feels loved.

\- Good luck, baby. I probably won't be home when you come back but I'll see you around noon tomorrow, ok? If everything works out fine at the hospital.

\- Ok, mom. I'll see you then, no worries.

They smile at each other for a second longer.

- Now go back to sleep, young lady!

She laughs and shakes her head.

\- Bye, Lou.

And, as Louis is reaching the stairs:

\- I'm proud of you, baby.

Louis doesn't answer, but he's pretty sure this moment will be kept forever in his private hall of fame of happier moments. He will remember this moment forever. In the dark, alone, Louis smiles a private smile, only for himself. Happy. There's a feeling in Louis' chest growing bigger, a feeling he chose to ignore, too afraid of spoiling everything somehow. But as he allows himself to actually feel it, Louis can admit that things have been getting better lately; he dares thinking that maybe everything will turn out fine. Yeah, maybe everything will be fine. Maybe Louis will be ok. There's no way Louis could know where the thought came from, what originated the warm feeling in his ribcage, but it's gone as soon as Louis reaches the first floor and sees, through the open-curtained windows, the strong light coming from Melissa's headlights, brighter than the sunlight this morning. Louis runs to the front door (again, sidestepping the ugly "Persian" carpet), opens it and locks it behind him. He hides his keys under the pottery jar and enters Melissa's car all in one breath. After he puts on his seatbelt, Melissa kisses his cheek as a greeting and then whistles.

\- Are you pulling tonight, Peaches?

\- Shut up. You look gorgeous.

She does. Perfect makeup and a black, high neck dress, her hair loose and natural.

\- Well, considering I'm not drinking, I thought I might at least look good while everyone around me gets drunk.

Melissa starts her car, a white Golf, and their ride to The Lighthouse, a short one at that, begins.

\- Not drinking, then?

\- Not drinking.

\- Talked to Luke?

\- Not yet, boss. Will you please let us focus on work now? I know you're dying to go over the details one more time, so let's do it.

Melissa says it with a kind smile, but she's only half-joking. Louis knows - in the same way Melissa knows that Louis is going out of his skin thinking about the whole night ahead of them - that she is just changing the subject. She's doing nothing but trying to distract Louis from her little-bean-named-Louise business. Louis will let her, at least for now. Just because there's something important to be done soon. Louis decides to focus instead on the warm air coming out of her air conditioning vents, warming up Louis' cheeks and drying up his fringe way faster than the cold air outside would.

They stay in silence for a while, the only sound coming from the car radio, Melissa's "Driving playlist". It's a good one.

_Hold up, they don't love you like I love you_

_Slow down, they don't love you like I love you_

_Back up, they don't love you like I love you_

_Step down, they don't love you like I love you_

_Can't you see there's no other man above you?_

_What a wicked way to treat the girl that loves you_

The city is dark around them, only a few lit lamp posts, and slightly empty, as it always is. It's a small town after all. They only see gatherings of people (no matter how small they actually are) on specific spots, like gas stations (all two of them) or open bars (all three of them). If they were driving around during the day, there would obviously be more lads and birds and old folks and kids walking around than now, but this town is never going to be a busy one, it's never going to be interesting enough. If it were daytime, the town community would be split between two specific spots, with no exceptions: bars and churches. That's what gets small cities moving, what ensures that they will keep existing as a forgetful amount of space in a map so big it can be incomprehensive for most of its citizens. Small cities survive out of alcohol and faith, that's how they lure weak people and trap them with the false sense of comfort (that's actually resignation and surrender) until they willingly give up their dreams. It's pretty sad, in Louis' opinion. Especially sad when you can almost taste the way it's happening to you as well. Louis' body aches will the lives he's not living in different places, bigger cities, way more interesting than this cold, empty one here. There's a sudden urge to ask Melissa to "please, stop the car", but Louis quiets it down, breathing in the warm vent air.

_What's worse, lookin' jealous or crazy?_

_Jealous or crazy?_

_Or like being walked all over lately_

_Walked all over lately_

_I'd rather be crazy_

Melissa is a good driver, Louis notices, as she parks her car on a cheap parking lot near the bar. Before leaving the car, she says:

\- Just wanted to point out that it's exactly 07:59pm and we're perfectly on time, Peaches.

Louis thinks "on time is late", but he doesn't really know the rest of the sentence, doesn't know where it came from in the first place, so he doesn't continue his train of thought. Instead, he simply waits for Melissa to lock up her car and for her to hand her keys (paired with her pink pom-pom keychain) to the skinny scruffy guy that's going to watch her car for the night. When they start walking side-by-side, Melissa grabs Louis' hand and the gesture calms him down a bit, in a way Louis didn't expect it to. Louis can feel her sending positive vibrations through her fingertips pressed against his skin and even when he doesn't believe those hippy energy thingies, he's more serene than he was a second ago.

They stop by the side entrance of the bar and all the security guys are already there, buffy bald men, wearing only black clothes, way too tight for their muscular bodies, in Louis' opinion. One of them, the buffest one, greets Louis and Melissa with a small tilt of his head and Louis blushes. There are lights on inside The Lighthouse and Louis will have to find a way to thank Jack later for picking up this part of the work.

\- Ready, Peaches?

Louis nods and he and Melissa are still holding hands when they enter the bar. Soon as they do, Jack appears, all dressed up for the event, to greet Louis and Melissa by the door. They do their small, quick ritual of taking a couple of deep breaths together, synchronized, and that's it. That's the last time Louis feels nervous throughout the whole night.

Throughout the night, Louis comes to the realization that there's nothing to be nervous about, really. Maybe his mom and Harry were right. There's nothing to be nervous about if Louis is only doing the things that he knows how to do; the things that he could do with his eyes closed. Louis handles the guest list and the VIP area and the voting system for the night and the beer. He handles everything and although they are, indeed, complex problems, he manages to solve each single one of them. Yeah, he manages, yay! The night passes by in the blink of an eye. Louis sets up the last details and before he knows, the lights have been dimmed and the bartenders have arrived and the bar is crowded and the music is great. Everything is perfect. When Melissa passes him by, in the middle of the sea of drunken clients, and sends him a thumbs up because this is really, really going great, Louis lets himself smile. He's exhausted and he can feel the sweat on the bottom of his back and he can feel his fringe clinging to his forehead but he's proud of himself.

Louis closes his eyes for a quick second, leaning against the cold dark wall from the upstairs level of The Lighthouse. He feels the coolness of the cement wall against his back, against his neck, cooling of his feverish skin. Louis takes a deep, long breath and heads downstairs. It's about to begin. When Louis finishes climbing down the narrow staircase, Reggie's voice is already echoing through the salon:

\- Good night my little lost sailors.

The public cheers loudly.

\- I'm glad we get this chance to meet again at our Lighthouse-

Everyone cheers again. Louis watches everything from a distance, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the saloon, happy.

\- For the most important event of the month, you guys know what it is!

The whole bar screams "Battle of the Bands!" together and it should be lame, but it isn't, it's great.

\- The night's theme? The only theme worth writing songs about: love.

Louis can see a guy who simply downs a full beer mug when Reggie announces the theme and yeah, Louis can relate, buddy.

\- Are you all ready?!

It's the last thing Reggie says on his mic. He then proceeds to get out of the stage and leaves the space for the first band of the night. Jack will take it from here. For Louis, Reggie's opening lines work as some sort of clock-altering machine, some sort of time machine. While Reggie was talking to the public, keeping it entertained, it was like time had slowed down and Louis could get a few extra seconds just to watch. Everything in slow motion. When Reggie leaves the stage, though, time starts again and it's like it moves extra fast just to catch up. For a couple of hours, Louis swears his life continues in a different rhythm than it did before, completely fast-paced; minutes passing by in the blink of an eye. The Battle in itself, the competition, is a blur and Louis barely hears any of the songs competing which is a shame because he really wanted to vote for a winner tonight. He can't really pay attention to the songs, but the only memory he recalls is that, at some moment throughout the night, someone sang a worse version of Wonderwall. No originality award for that one band, Louis thinks as he shakes his head, still as focused on his tasks as before.

He is making his way through the saloon, holding a box filled with vodka bottles, a heavy one at that, when a blonde girl nudges his arm.

\- Hey, where's the bathroom?

She's wearing big hoop earrings and too much lip gloss. Louis has no idea how she's not sweating in the middle of this crowd while wearing a furry tiger print coat (obviously made out of faux fur). She looks like she's trying too hard, like a wanna-be famous from the 1990's. Louis is sure she chews her gums open mouthed.

\- You work here, don't you?

She says it in such a rude way that Louis blinks back at her. "Excuse you?" Louis is the one holding a heavy box of vodka bottles, sweating, wearing no gloss on his lips (if he did, he would wear the correct amount, by the way). Louis is the one suffering here, he can take as long as he wants to answer her stupid question. Can't she see the huge bathroom neon signs by the left wall? Probably not, she looks dumb. Dumb blonde, that's how Louis will name her in his mind. When Louis starts to further analyze her, quicker this time so that the tiger queen won't complain again, he notices that she actually looks extremely naive; impressionable; she looks like she's dying to cause some trouble.

- Yeah, it's right-

When Louis turns around to point the ladies bathroom to her, his eyes end up laying on Jack. Jack's discussing something that looks important with the lads from the next band. Maybe there's a way to thank Jack after all.

- Do you see this lad over there? Really white? Really handsome?

Dumb Blonde makes an expression that shows she's about to disagree to Louis' statement, so Louis continues.

\- He's the owner.

Dumb Blonde's eyes shine with bad-concealed interest and see? Louis was right. He has a radar for these things. She's naive, impressionable and kind of pretty; pretty enough for Jack.

\- I think he can point you to the bathroom.

She's already nodding her head excitedly, hoop earrings shaking around her face, and she doesn't even look at Louis anymore, just heads straight into Jack's way. Perfect. You're welcome, Jack.

Finally free, Louis takes the heavy vodka box to the bar's counter, refuses the tequila shot one of the bartenders keep offering him (too many calories and he's still working; he will only celebrate when the whole thing is over; he's a professional) and he's about to make his way to talk to one of the security lads by the entrance door when someone nudges Louis' left arm. Before turning around to the source of the nudging, Louis wonders how many birds he will have to send to Jack's arms today. While Louis considers the chances that Jack would actually try to hook up to all of the girls at the same time, the nudging transforms itself into a strong hold, embracing all of Louis' arm. Louis immediately turns around. It's Reggie and he's smiling at Louis. The only thing Reggie says is:

\- This is the best one of the year, yeah?

Louis smiles brightly at Reggie and doesn't even get the chance to thank him or to agree with his statement before random people start pushing the both of them in opposite directions; a herd heading for the stage, or to the bathroom, or to the bar to get more alcohol into their bloodstream. It's a crazy crowd, really. Louis is glad they are here.

Reggie's compliment is the last memorable thing that happens during the night, at least so far, and the event is over. It's almost 3am when the first Battle of the Bands, completely organized by Louis Tomlinson (and Melissa, and Jack, God bless their souls) came to its end. It was perfect. Louis watched fascinated as people clapped before leaving and he only understood that he had done his job with excellence when the music was turned off. Right now, The Lighthouse's lights are on, flashy white against the previous darkness, and so are the stage's microphones because Jack hasn't finished unplugging them yet. There's no one here but Louis, Melissa and Jack. Charlie's Angels. The Three Musketeers.

\- I am so knackered, maaan. - Jack says while he keeps moving around the saloon, working nonstop.

\- It was so great, Peaches. - Melissa tells Louis excitedly, even if her voice sounds a bit tired and hoarse, while she tries to keep her hair out of her face. Melissa's head is currently upside down, as she checks the lower drink shelves of the bar.

\- So great, lad, I think I'm gonna have to start calling you boss for real now. - Jack says and Louis laughs because they are amazing. Amazing, really.

Louis can barely feel his feet anymore, but it's a warm kind of exhaustion, gratifying.

Jack speaks again:

\- Did you guys vote for the winning band?

\- I haven't heard a thing, really. How about you, Peaches? - Melissa's head is back to its usual position as she looks just as pretty as she did seven hours ago.

- I can't even tell if there were bands here at all!

Jack laughs and adds:

\- Shit, we will never know if we voted for the right one, then. Right in the most important Battle of all times! The one where Lou became the boss. And we'll never know!

- We'll pretend we did. Yay to us! We always vote for the winner! Actually, we are the real winners!

Louis knows he's not making sense anymore, but he's too tired to care and when Melissa starts clapping her hands, Louis has no idea where her energy is coming from. The three of them smile at each other with tired smiles. Then, Melissa announces:

\- Sorry, I gotta sit down for a bit.

And she then proceeds to sit down in the middle of the saloon. Louis only stares at her for a while, sitting cross-legged, absolutely relaxed, in the area of the saloon's floor that they cleaned last. It's clean, the floor. It is. Extremely clean. It's even waxed. It's just that sometimes Louis gets a bit hesitant to place his beautiful, clean bum in a place that, not just a few minutes ago, was filthy dirty with spilled drinks and other people's shoes. Louis isn't fussy, he's just...

\- Stop being fussy. - Melissa is looking up at him from her place with a small smile on her face.

Exhaustion ends up beating hesitation because not two seconds later, Louis is sitting right next to Melissa. Louis doesn't sit cross-legged like she did. Instead, he extends his legs in front of him and places both of his hands behind his back, leaning his weight on them. It takes only a minute longer for Jack to join them on the floor, completing the triangle.

\- Thank you for tonight. I'm too tired to thank you guys properly-

\- That sounded so sexual. - Melissa adds because she thinks she is funny. Louis ignores her.

- But thank you. Really.

Jack is smiling at Louis under the white light, a harmless bobcat that helped Louis with Louis' entire career. When Jack speaks, his words are kind like his smile and Louis thinks this is as deep as conversations with Jack will ever get when it comes to feelings; it's enough for the both of them.

\- No worries, mate. You're gonna be a great manager.

Melissa nods and Jack continues:

\- It was a good one, you know? Reggie must be happy. I even met a bird today.

Dumb Blonde!

\- Oh, yeah? Where's she?

Jack blushes and it's too easy to see the pinkness against his white skin.

\- Waiting for me in the car...

- Jack! What the fuck? Leave! Now!

\- No, no... I can help-

\- Jack. Go. Really. Go be happy with your new lady, fall in love, come in your pants, whatever you young people do.

Melissa snorts and Jack looks at Louis for a moment longer, making sure that Louis doesn't need him anymore. Before leaving, he ruffles Louis' hair and high-fives Melissa. Good for him.

When Melissa speaks, her voice is just as tired as Louis feels.

\- And then, there were two.

- I like Agatha Christie.

\- I know you also like to go home to pretty blokes that are waiting for you.

\- I'm not leaving, Mel.

\- I can finish tidying everything up-

- I'm not leaving, Mel.

\- I'm not gonna leave you here alone.

\- But I want you to, I think.

The same feeling from before, the good kind of exhaustion, the warm kind, sits heavily against Louis' chest. He desperately wants to admire the result of his hard work by himself; he wants to lay down on this clean floor and stare at the empty stage in an empty music bar in this insignificant town and know that this is how deeply he can affect the universe. This is how far he goes when making a difference. This is his impact on the Cosmos. He wants to feel like it's enough.

- Can you leave me alone so I can picture myself in some indie hipster clip? All alone in an empty bar, feeling the chemicals burning in my bloodstream or whatever shit they sing about. 

\- You're ridiculous.

\- Melissa.

Louis loves the face she makes whenever he calls her, Melissa.

\- I'm not leaving you here.

\- Bloody hell-

\- Louis.

\- All I'll have to do is turn off the lights and unplug the mic. Please, would you give me more credit than that?

\- Louis.

\- It's part of being a manager, you know?

\- Louis.

- Yeah?

\- I'm so proud of you.

Louis smiles.

- Go home, Mel. It's been a long day, yeah?

Melissa nods before she stands up and kisses Louis' cheeks once, a small peck. She waves her hand at him when she reaches the side entrance of The Lighthouse and when she closes the door behind her, that's it. Louis is alone.

Wherever his fussiness about sitting on the dirty - now clean - floor came from, it's almost non-existent now. Louis lets his fingertips run across the waxed floor, writing down his name in these big capital letters: L, O, U, I and S. This belongs to him in a way, this whole night was somewhat his. Louis takes one deep breath and lets his weight carry him down, placing his hands on each side of his body, next to his slim waist. Laying down on this pub's floor, Louis tries to affect the universe, to disturb it somehow. Nothing really changes around him. He looks at the empty stage for as long as it feels rewarding to do it. Then, when it feels like there's nothing more to learn from it, Louis looks at the saloon's coffered ceiling, admires the darkness of its wood. Feeling his eyes closing and the fatigue devouring him from the root of his hair to the tip of his toes, Louis completely turns around; now, laying on his belly. He closes his eyes because suddenly, sleeping here, with his cheeks pressed to the waxed floor, doesn't seem like a bad idea at all.

- Did you fall from heaven?

Louis wonders if he will ever be able to explain to Harry the way Louis' body reacts to Harry's voice, the way Harry's voice could calm the oceans. Maybe Harry is the moon, soothing Louis' tides, caressing Louis' waves. Louis' eyes are still closed, but his heart is already beating differently, slower, in sync.

Closed-eyes, Louis smiles.

\- Because so did Satan.

Louis frowns.

- You know, that talk about the devil wearing Prada is a lie. I'm literally just wearing a black tee.

Louis can hear Harry's steps against the floor.

\- And you look pretty in it.

Harry's getting closer. Louis can feel the anticipation rushing through his veins like a sweet dose of heroin, ruining Louis' heart for anyone else.

\- Always so pretty, Lou.

Louis opens his eyes then and, to Louis' eyes, Harry looks as gorgeous upside down as he does the right way up. Harry's looking back at him with some sort of adoration floating in his green eyes and Louis suspects that their joy is so bright that they can see nothing but each other. Louis knows he can't. The crinkles by Louis' eyes appear without him realizing that he's smiling that hard, but it seems like a natural reaction of his body, an immediate response to Harry's presence. Happiness.

\- I was looking at your smile from across the room.

- Really?

- Yeah. At your smile and your butt.

Louis rolls his eyes because Harry's the worst.

- How did you even manage to get here?

\- Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.

\- Oh my God, are you quoting Picasso?

Harry nods proudly. Louis wants to kiss him stupid.

\- I'm gonna need you to take me home now.

\- Actually-

\- No, Harry. Come on. What does a boy gotta do around here to be loved?

There's no irritation in Harry's eyes while he takes in Louis' drama. Harry's actually sporting a small smile on his lips, waiting patiently for Louis' show to be over.

- You're loved.

- Damn right I am.

\- What I want is to do a thing with you... Before we head to your house. We have the bar all to ourselves, it would be a waste to just leave, wouldn't it?

\- Curly, I'm honestly not sure I'm confident enough for whatever dirty little thing you're thinking of, like, maybe you're into some-

- NO. No.

Harry snorts, looking at the floor while shaking his head, curly hair falling all around his face. "An angel", Louis thinks. "My cherub".

\- Not that. I'm not good with... Ahm... sharing? I'm not really into the idea of exposing you, yeah, no. Rather have you all to myself.

Louis ignores the lava erupting from the deepest parts of his soul and doesn't point out to Harry that the bar is literally empty, the two of them the only ones here.

\- What's it then?

- Do you wanna watch a performance? 

Louis nods. 

\- I wanna do everything on earth with you.

Harry extends his right hand and after Louis grabs it, holding on tight to Harry's long fingers, Harry pulls Louis up to a standing position again. Vertical. For a second, Louis is kind of dizzy, probably Harry's fault, but when the world comes back to him it's even more colorful than before. It's better. Then, after pulling Louis up and acting like he owns the place, Harry starts making his way to the empty stage. He climbs up the small stairs on the left side of it and grabs the still-on microphone. Harry taps twice on it and the sound echoes through the whole saloon.

\- Are you a contestant? For the Battle?

- Not exactly...

\- Are you going to sing to me?

\- Not exactly.

Louis waits in silence, then; he lets Harry be all mysterious if that's what he wants to do now. It's quite charming, Louis can admit that.

\- It's spoken poetry. Do you know what it is?

Louis nods really fast because if he didn't, he would scream out of excitement. He's such a Harry fan, Harry's number one fan. If Louis could, he would probably decorate his whole bedroom only with Harry's best pictures, gluing them to his bedroom wall like posters. Yeah, Louis is a Harry fan. Maybe he will get around to taking some nice pictures of Harry someday.

- Well, that's what I'm going to do!

Harry is laughing when he says it, a lopsided smile on his lips, face shining like the sun, and Louis can tell that he is happy. It's a beautiful sight to watch.

\- But I'm gonna be honest and I'm gonna stick to the Battle's theme.

\- Love, you mean?

- What else, Louis?

\- Nothing else worth writing about.

\- Nothing else.

Harry holds the microphone next to his mouth and Louis can't breathe, but then he lowers it again. He's insecure as if he isn't Louis' wildest fantasies coming true.

\- It's not happy, though.

- Doesn't need to be happy.

- It's honest.

- That's all I ask for.

Harry nods, his eyebrows now furrowed.

\- I'm afraid I might scare you away.

- There's nothing in this world strong enough to keep me from you, Curly.

Harry looks shy with the spotlight on him, the white light making his hair a light brown, walnut color, his skin almost silver, his lips hibiscus. Louis knows it'll be a spectacle and he is suddenly taken by the realization that this right here is Louis' Cosmos. Louis' whole world comes down to this moment in time.

Louis' voice almost doesn't waver when he says:

- Are you ready, your highness?

Harry smiles sweetly at him from under his eyelashes. Louis will spend the rest of his night kissing those lips; until Louis' mouth turns hibiscus as well, until Harry's lips turn crimson and then carmine and then burgundy and Louis won't stop kissing them even after they reach that final shade of cherry. They are Louis' ruby; Harry's lips. Louis' most precious treasure.

\- Yeah. Can I start?

\- Whenever you want. You have my full undivided attention. - "For the rest of my life", Louis thinks but doesn't say.

Harry coughs once, preparing himself, and then he starts reciting and when he does, nothing else matters.

- The only thing my mother taught me was to never wear my hair down for a boy who didn't read poetry. I tried telling you that my body was a gallery of insanity and isolation, a museum of bones and pills. I said poetry bloomed out of me like a flame as hot as your kisses, it spilled out of me like boiling gasoline and only you could ignite the words and make sense out of the pain. I said I felt heard, I said there was more room to breathe. I wore your smile as a medal, I wrote, our souls are shadows in space. I wrote, our love is molded out of glitter and ash. I wrote, I was so alone I could taste the dryness of my skin, I could swallow the iron in my blood. But you're here now. You're here. There is a civil war in my mind and I keep trying to sweep the word cancer under the carpet of my distraction. If we were talking in frequencies, yours would be the energy of the universe and I wanna be your sun. My sunshine, we're synced. I'm afraid we always will be and I wanna see nothing but your blue eyes until the day I die. My English professor once compared poetry to murder, I compare it to the way you mock my name. I write, my mother taught me to never wear my hair down for a boy who didn't read poetry. I wrote, I will always wear my hair down for you.

Louis didn't realize he was walking towards the stage until he hit his chest on it, completely fascinated, completely inebriated by everything that Harry is. When Harry finishes reciting his poem, Louis hasn't taken a step back, stays glued to the stage, close enough to touch. Louis wants to touch.

- Did you like it?

\- Whoever invented this language didn't anticipate you, Curly.

Harry has the courage of looking embarrassed while stares straight into Louis' eyes, insecure, searching for a confirmation of Louis' words. Louis will kiss him until Harry learns to believe in him.

\- Yeah?

- I know you don't like when I call you perfect, you say that a lie is never a compliment...

As Louis is speaking, he realizes that Harry never exactly told him that, not in those specific words and not in any way that could be interpreted in the way that Louis is interpreting right now. Still, Harry nods slowly like Louis is correct and the strange part is that Louis knows he is. He knows how Harry works, knows Harry better than he knows himself. Louis knows Harry thinks he is the furthest thing away from perfect as possible. In face of this absurdity, it's simply Louis' obligation to let Harry know how wrong he is, how out of touch with reality Harry is. Stupid, perfect Bambi.

- But that was the closest thing from perfect I have ever seen.

Harry immediately climbs down the stage, excited smile on his face and eyes glassy, and throws himself into Louis' arm. Louis catches him. Always will.

When Louis kisses him tenderly, Harry tastes like a fresh summer night in a cosy bungalow on an island they have never been. When Harry's hands sneak into Louis' waist and Harry pulls him against his chest, Louis thinks he tastes like a dark, cloudless sky, made out of only the prettiest stars; comets and constellations and a single north star. A sky made out of glitter. "Our love is molded out of glitter and ash". Harry's tongue brings up the sound of crashing waves, their splashes and their sea foam. Harry tastes like the ocean breeze they will feel against their tanned skin while they stargaze from the comfort of their bed in a cosy bungalow located in a place that doesn't really exist. Somewhere only they know. Louis thinks Harry's kiss tastes like home, tastes like a home Louis hopes Harry will share with him someday. Louis wants to spend the rest of his life there.

Forcing himself to stop kissing Harry is a drop of melted golden inside his brain, pure torture, but Louis does it. He kisses Harry's chin and his cheeks and when he reaches Harry's ear, he says:

\- You're my winner for the night.

Harry giggles, lips wet and puffy, almost carmine, but not there yet.

\- Yeah?

\- Yeah.

Louis nods.

\- Then you're my trophy.

Louis laughs out loud when Harry starts placing his cold giant hands underneath Louis' shirt, rubbing his cold nose into Louis' cheeks.

- It's cold, let's run home.

Louis grabs Harry's hands, considers Harry's idea and decides that it's not even a bad idea at all. Louis feels like he could run a marathon, that's how much energy Harry gives him; that's how alive Harry makes him feel.

\- Let's run home.

And that's what they do.

❥

The night is cold around them and nothing else matters but the way Harry holds on to Louis' hand, tight, pulling him while letting himself be guided by Louis as they run through the streets of this empty city. Louis thinks he's laughing, probably too loud considering the hour, considering the place, but he can't stop this burning feeling inside his chest, can't stop the way he feels like him and Harry are the kings of the world and like this whole universe is theirs to take. Louis wants to go one and take it. He thinks they will. Harry's black Chelsea boots hit the street's asphalt, hit the crosswalk, in the same rhythm of Louis' breathing and Harry seems to be running to the beat of Louis' heart as a soundtrack. Louis will never be this connected to anyone else in his life and he's ok with it, it's his fate, he will face it with his arms wide open, ready to embrace a curly-haired lad and surrender his heart to him. When Louis looks at Harry, his breath is white against the light coming from the street poles and Louis can see an imaginary crown on top of his messy hair. The crown isn't really there, it's part of a universe that belongs only to them, but Louis can almost touch it. It's golden and heavy, studded with jade stones and sapphires, sitting perfectly on top of Harry's head. There's a good type of tightness on Louis' chest when he realizes that even after all this time, even the beginning of the universe, Harry's still his king. He will always be. Louis will crown him once again tonight.

By the time they reach Louis' house, they are both out of breath, laughing while their chests expand and contract at the same pace, in the same rhythm; a dance made for two. When Louis leans down to pick up his hidden key under the pottery vase, Harry grabs his waist with both hands, holding him strongly, and Louis can feel Harry's legs against the back of his own. When Louis stands up, Harry kisses the nape of his neck and Louis can't help shivering before whispering:

- I don't know if my mom's still home.

Louis doesn't wait for Harry's answer before opening his front door.

Silently, they enter Louis' hall, heading straight for the living room. Harry is visibly trying to make as little noise as possible and Louis could kiss him for it. In Louis' imagination, Harry looks like he's in one of those silent cartoon shows; a more charming version of Bugs Bunny.

When Louis speaks again, he's still whispering:

\- I put the wine in the fridge.

-Lou.

When Louis looks at Harry's face, Harry's biting his lips, eyebrows drawn in, and he looks apologetic.

\- I really need to pee.

Louis snorts quietly.

\- Just climb up the stairs, Curly, first door on the right. You can wait for me in my room, yeah? I'll grab the wine and I'll be up in a sec.

Harry doesn't answer him. Instead, he places a silent kiss on Louis' cheek and starts walking all quiet-Bugs Bunny again, heading for the stairs. Louis watches Harry until he reaches the third step on the staircase and then goes ahead with his own mission, wine and bedroom. Louis is walking fast when he enters the kitchen, eager to get upstairs as soon as he possibly can, and that's the reason why he can't disguise the way he startles when he sees his mother, sitting at the kitchen table, in her nurse uniform. She has a small mug of coffee on her hands and, considering that she's drinking caffeine at almost 4am, Louis once again considers how truly absurd her working hours are, her whole routine really.

\- Oh, hey, Lou. Weren't you sleeping?

The light in her eyes is dimmed and she looks tired with her hair up in a messy bun. She looks like she wanted to be anywhere else but here, she looks like she's away. Or maybe she just looks tired, Louis isn't really paying that much attention right now.

\- No, mom. I had the... the work thing.

\- Oh, how was it?

\- It was good. Yeah, it was good.

\- I can see that. You look happy.

Louis smiles at her then.

- I am, yeah.

She nods at him while raising her coffee mug for another sip.

\- I'm not gonna bother you, I actually just came here to grab some stuff really quick.

As Louis says it, he starts walking towards their fridge, searching for the bottle of wine. He finds it easily and the next step is the kitchen cabinet.

\- You never bother me, Lou.

Louis loves when she says stuff like that, even if she doesn't really mean to. Louis will think about it later. Now, the only thing he wants is to find the two wine glasses he had already put aside for the moment he and Harry arrived. Louis finds the two glasses exactly where he left them.

Louis doesn't realize his mistake, really doesn't, too eager and simultaneously tired for it, but by the time he does, it's already too late.

\- Two glasses, Lou? Are you having a guest over?

Shit.

Louis doesn't try to elaborate some complex lie like he normally would. He just tells her the truth. There is really no way he could talk his way out of this one, doesn't matter how quick and witty he usually is when it comes to situations like this one. Louis is pretty good at lying and he knows he could try to, but now, when he comes to Harry, he doesn't even want to.

\- Yes.

Louis' mother nods.

\- I'm not gonna lecture you or anything, if that's what you're thinking.

Louis raises his shy eyes at her and finds her gentle eyes, so similar to his own, only a bit distant, almost here with him, already staring back at him with a kindness Louis really, really appreciates.

- No?

\- No. I did find it pretty sneaky of you, but no. I'm glad there's someone upstairs.

A pessimistic part of Louis' mind wonders how lonely she thinks really Louis is in order to be glad - and not mad, not disappointed or upset - that Louis is bringing boys home without her permission. Louis chooses to ignore that pessimistic part of his mind.

\- What's his name, then?

Louis thinks he will never be able to say Harry's name out loud without shaping the letters with a devoted smile. Maybe that's what love is.

\- It's... Harry, mom.

\- Harry. It's a beautiful name.

She smiles a melancholic smile at Louis and Louis knows that right now she's not here, she's ruminating her own bittersweet memories - more bitter than sweet - and Louis decides not to let her sad eyes affect him. This is different. He and Harry are different. Better.

\- Is he a good kid, Lou?

- You know I only like the good ones, mom.

Her melancholic smile is still there, a bit more pleased than before.

Their conversation is quiet, whispered, appropriated to these late hours of dawn where the morning is almost arriving and if you try hard enough, you can almost feel the sunlight against your skin. If you open your eyes, though, there will still be only the night darkness. They sit by their kitchen table, Louis and his mother, like they did a thousand times before; a scene that occasionally repeats itself throughout their lives. There's always a hint of sadness in these moments that Louis never knows where it comes from; maybe it overflows from the melancholy in his mother's eyes. They always come back to this table, Louis thinks, no matter how much they may distance themselves from one another. The kitchen table, in the late hours, with this hint of sadness, is more than a simple piece of furniture. It's a way to be close to each other. It's a place to connect.

\- You once told me that you wanted a man who knew how you took your tea, your coffee and your alcohol.

- Yeah.

\- You said you wanted someone who knew when to make which.

\- Yes.

\- Does he?

\- Better than I know myself.

\- Perfect. It's what you deserve.

- I don't know about that, mom...

\- It's what you deserve.

Louis nods. Ok, then, if she's going to be this stubborn.

\- Are you going to introduce us someday?

\- Someday, yeah.

She raises her eyebrows disbelievingly, as if she never expected to hear this answer from Louis. Louis can also notice, underneath her surprise, that she's somewhat embarrassed. Louis understands now and only now that she thinks Louis is ashamed of her in a certain way, as if he would never introduce his own mother to someone who's special to him. It's a misunderstanding Louis will try to fix.

\- Obviously, I will. Someday, yeah.

She must sense some sort of comfort in Louis' eyes because she smiles at him thankful. Her next question isn't what Louis was expecting, but he understands why she asked.

\- It's the real thing for you, then?

- I guess so, mom. Yes.

\- Then what are you still doing here?

Louis smiles at her, more thankful than she was a second ago. He grabs his wine bottle and his wine glasses all in one hand - perks of working at The Lighthouse - and stands up from his seat at their kitchen table, their place to connect. He lowers his head before leaving the kitchen and gives her a kiss on her cheek. She closes her eyes when he does, still tired, then, but here with him. It's enough.

Louis is almost climbing up the stairs to his bedroom when he stops himself for a second. Turns around.

\- Mom?

\- Yeah?

\- Thank you.

The silence lasts three of Louis' heartbeats.

\- I just want you to be happy, yeah?

There's a wall between them and Louis can't see her expression, but she sounds so sincere that his heart aches. He won't return to the kitchen because he doesn't want to cry, not tonight.

- Me too, mom, I-

\- Louis.

Her voice is serious and Louis stops trying to answer her. This is the voice she uses for important matters. Louis listens carefully.

\- I want you to be happy anywhere, yeah?

Louis thinks he knows what she's saying, knows the meaning behind her words, but it's a bit too much to be talking about right now, while they are whispering to each other at 4 in the morning with a wall between them.

\- Anywhere, Lou.

Louis won't cry.

\- Yeah?

When Louis looks up, she's already leaving the kitchen and her open arms embrace him as soon as she gets close enough to hug him. It's a mother-bear hug.

\- I would feel you being happy, you know that. I would feel your happiness inside my heart, no matter how far away you are.

\- We would be connected.

\- We already are.

She kisses the top of Louis' head and smiles gently at him.

\- Now go, baby. Have fun.

Louis. Won't. Cry.

- Yeah, mom. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow.

She hugs him one more time before returning to her coffee mug, to their kitchen table, and Louis watches her back as she leaves, thanking the universe because maybe Louis was born where he was supposed to be, when he was supposed to be; right here, as her only son. "Thanks, universe", it's only a quiet thought, not a shout like this morning's, but the feeling is still there. The gratitude.

After blinking away the wetness from his eyes, Louis climbs up the stairs lazily, unhurried; he wants this moment, the anticipation moment, to last as much as it can last, to stretch until he can't take it anymore. They will never be here again, he and Harry, in the "before moment". Louis wants to remember everything.

When Louis' fingers touch his bedroom door, he takes his time feeling the wood against the skin of his fingertips, cold and hard, the last barrier between Louis and all of his most perfect dreams. Louis feels like this is where he's supposed to be, a feeling that never once took over his brain so strongly, so completely as it is doing now. This is where Louis belongs. When he pushes the bedroom door open, it feels heavier than it usually does. Maybe it also knows about what's about to happen, maybe it's anticipating this important moment, maybe it will keep Louis and Harry safely inside Louis' bedroom, separated from the rest of the world. It's what they deserve.

Anytime Louis opens his bedroom door, it makes this small squeak, a funny little noise. It isn't different now. It's the squeak that makes Harry's eyes jump up to Louis' face and they don't even look green in this light, they look black. Harry's eyes are the size of the universe and they are shining more than all the stars combined. Harry is Louis' private galaxy, for Louis' eyes only.

Harry is attentively watching every single one of Louis' moves like he's fascinated, like he just can't help but watch, and Louis can physically feel the warmth on his cheeks, can feel his cheeks turning pink under Harry's gaze. They still haven't said a word to each other and the silence they share is loaded and it's only theirs. Harry looks like a lion admiring his prey, giving it a chance to run if it wants to; Harry looks like a lion faced with an equal. Louis likes the idea of ruling this world by Harry's side.

The wine bottle and the wine glasses are being held by a single one of Louis' hands and when Harry notices it, he smiles for the first time since Louis opened the bedroom door. Apparently, Harry can see how much Louis is struggling to hold everything with his small fingers. Still, Harry makes no move to help, stays still, letting Louis be, admiring. As soon as Louis closes the door behind him, Harry's smile is gone and the devotion is back.

Harry's sitting cross-legged by the end of Louis' bed. He's barefoot, Louis notices, looking relaxed while still following Louis' each breath, and the thought that Harry made himself at home in Louis' bedroom makes Louis' belly twist in happiness. The curtains are still a bit open, just like they were this morning, and through the space they leave between each piece of cloth, it's possible to see the light coming from the street and the light coming from the sky. The open curtains let the light in and in this light, Harry looks like an angel, glittering like the sea. Louis wants to drown himself in him. Instead, he places the wine bottle and the glasses on his nightstand and takes a deep breath, trying to contain the rapid beats of his fragile heart.

\- You're beautiful, you know?

Louis looks up at Harry, startled.

\- It's hard to look at you sometimes.

\- I must confess, Harold, I never thought you had any sort of problem looking at me.

Louis is bringing up a fair point, he knows he is. Especially when that's exactly what Harry's doing right now; looking at Louis unblinkingly, fascinated, plush red mouth wet and the thoughts of what Louis wants to do to him are making Louis' face heat up all over again.

\- Yeah, it's harder to look away.

Harry says it like it hurts. Harry says it as if it's a confession, like he's aching whenever he has to look away from Louis, and that's when Louis decides to sit right in front of him on his bed. Louis takes off his shoes just like Harry did and Harry does nothing but follow Louis with his hungry eyes (even if Harry's the only person in the world who can pair those hungry eyes with a kind smile; Louis' teasing angel).

When Louis eventually manages to sit cross-legged in front of Harry, they are back to saying nothing to each other. In the silence, they just take each other in, breathing together, hearts beating in the same rhythm; in sync. When the moment stretches for far too long, Louis starts to think of them as two smitten fools, fascinated by each other, gazing at each other like they've discovered the best secret of the universe. Maybe they did. Louis is too in love to keep quiet.

\- I did a terrible thing.

Louis can see in Harry's amazed eyes that this was not what he expected Louis to say. A flash of surprise crosses Harry's expression, followed by a hint of delight. Still, Harry's up for anything Louis wants, he will take whatever conversation Louis starts, doesn't matter how absurd or nonsensical it is. This willingness, this softness and docility, is just another feature that Louis adores about him, another one for the list.

\- What did you do?

- I insinuated that Mel's baby was Jack's.

Harry's eyes are way more surprised now.

- Insinuated?

\- Assumed it was. Explicitly.

Harry laughs loudly and see? Harry would have known little Louise wasn't Jack's and if Louis had talked to him before, Harry would never have let Louis make a fool of himself (and end up receiving a SHPÁ slap on his beautiful face, but Louis would rather not think about this delicate topic right now).

\- Why?!

\- They were acting weird.

\- Were they now?

- Yeah, they were!

Louis rolls his eyes and Harry waits because he knows there's more.

\- Ok, I did another terrible thing.

Harry laughs like he was expecting it. He was.

- What did you do?

\- I told a dumb blonde girl at The Lighthouse that Jack was the owner.

\- Why, Louis?

\- Wanted him to get laid.

Louis says it grumpily and Harry nods seriously.

\- Makes sense, I'm only here cause you're the manager after all, but I guess I could settle for the owner.

- Shut up!

Louis pushes Harry's shoulder and Harry grabs Louis' hand.

\- Any other terrible thing you did?

\- I don't wanna keep telling you all the terrible things I did, Harry, what the fuck?

- I want you to tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway.

\- Harry.

\- Let me.

Louis will let him. Louis knows. Harry knows it too. The thought is, suddenly, for some unknown reason, a bit scary and as an attempt to calm himself down, Louis extends his hand until he reaches the wine bottle. He grabs it by its neck. He doesn't grab a glass. Instead, Louis tips the bottle straight into his mouth and takes a huge swig of the purple liquid. It tastes sweet and dry against his tongue. Louis puts the bottle back onto his nightstand and as he turns his head to look at Harry again, he imagines how he looks to Harry's eyes: tired eyes, messy hair, lips in a shade of sangria, exhausted; Louis thinks Harry must look at him and see nothing but this chaotic, messy hurricane.

\- You look like sex.

Louis laughs because he loves him.

\- No, Harold, I wanna be romantic right now.

\- Then I'll be romantic.

\- No, you're not romantic.

That's obviously an absurd lie and they both know it, but Harry lets Louis get away with it and instead of questioning Louis, only waits for the next absurd thing Louis is about to say. Harry knows him so well.

\- I can do it better.

Harry doesn't answer Louis with the exception of a small raise of his eyebrows, unimpressed.

- I can be more romantic than you.

- Ok, then be romantic.

Harry's eyes are challenging and this boy will simply indulge Louis on anything Louis wants to do, won't he?

- Ok, ok... Roses are red, violets are blue. Pull my hair while I go down on you!

Harry laughs out loud and leans forward while Louis leans backwards, leaning into his comfy pillows. Against Louis' back, his pillows feel like they are made out of clouds. It's only appropriate considering the angel boy in front of him, Louis' cherub. As Harry places his strong arms around Louis's head, Louis can feel his heartbeat skyrocketing.

\- That was terrible.

\- Next one, then.

Harry groans into Louis' neck and Louis is in love with the feeling of the warm air against his sensible skin, even if he will never tell Harry that.

\- The moonlight looks nice. Let's have sex.

Harry laughs again, louder this time, and pulls his body up, leans his weight into his arms instead of into Louis' body, only so he can look into Louis' eyes. And don't get him wrong, Louis considers himself a really passionate guy, but after this view, Louis doesn't think he will ever love anything as much as Harry and the way Harry looks at 4 in the morning when he is laughing at one of Louis' stupid jokes.

Harry's laugh quiets down slowly and the silence that stretches between them is like an unbreakable thread made out of compacted love connecting both of their hearts. It won't ever break, Louis knows, doesn't matter the distance, doesn't matter anything else. The rest is just noise. "Nothing can separate the two of us", Louis thinks and he suspects he isn't even exaggerating, Louis suspects he is right.

While one of Harry's strong hands goes to Louis' waist, hold so strong that it feels like he wants to absolutely ruin Louis, wreck him beyond the limits of love, his other hand goes to Louis' neck. Harry's thumb strokes Louis' cheek while his other four fingers stay still, hot by Louis' nape. Harry holds Louis' head tenderly, with such fondness and fervour that he makes Louis believe that he's too precious to be touched by anyone else but Harry. Harry touches him as if Harry's committing a holy heresy; Louis, his sacred sin, that only Harry has the privilege and the right of committing. "Your love takes me to heaven", Louis thinks dizzily, "Your love takes me to myself".

Louis can hear his loud breathing getting heavier when Harry speaks next.

\- I dreamt about how your skin would feel against my fingers.

Louis closes his eyes, overwhelmed.

\- You are this soft little thing, all mine. Nobody knows how to take care of you.

And then, in a more determined tone:

- Gonna take care of you. No one else knows how to, no one else but me. Only me, right, Lou? Only me.

Harry seems to be looking for a confirmation, so Louis gives it to him.

\- No one but you, love.

Their next kiss is open mouthed, hot and sweet. Harry kisses Louis until time itself becomes nothing but a secret game between them, a supple messy concept that they can manipulate with their love. "There's no such thing as time". Louis spends eternities without breathing, tasting the different lives they will live together inside Harry's mouth, biting Harry's lips because he's the only one who can.

When Louis opens his eyes again, it feels like coming up for air in the middle of an inflammable ocean; an ocean only he and Harry can see, from their secret bungalow underneath a sky full of stars. It's an ocean they set fire to with only this one kiss. It will burn forever, their eternal flame. Louis blinks his eyes a couple of times until all the stardust has fallen from his eyelashes. He feels like his cheeks must be shining, sparkling like glitter. "I wrote, our love is molded out of glitter and ash". When Louis' vision unblurs, he sees Harry settled between Louis' open legs, smiling down at Louis. The moonlight makes Harry glow in this particularly exceptional way that makes Harry barely look real. Harry looks ethereal; his chestnut curls nothing but a halo around his face and the only viable explanation Louis can find is that a broken angel fell into his arms.

\- Take off your shirt.

Harry says it - orders it, really, and the thought makes Louis' legs shake - while thumbing underneath the hem of Louis's shirt. It's nothing but this soft running of his fingers against Louis' skin, but it's enough to make Louis' heart boil from the inside, melting in a mess of lava and desire. Louis knows Harry wants to take Louis' shirt off himself, wants to mouth across Louis' sharp collarbones, biting the dip of Louis' stomach that makes Louis worry so much. Louis knows exactly how Harry wants to take him. Harry loves Louis more than that, though, so he asks once, an order disguised as a request. And he asks again.

- Take off your shirt, Louis.

And then:

\- Please.

It's the way Harry says it, requests it, orders it. It's the sweet despair dripping from his voice that makes Louis squeeze his eyes shut and start unbuttoning his shirt, curling himself against his pillow.

\- You're so beautiful, baby. So, so beautiful.

Louis rolls his eyes, now shirtless and exposed, and Harry does nothing but admire Louis for far too long. The gaze makes Louis warm all over, pink with embarrassment and want. Louis focuses on Harry's face while Harry focuses on Louis. It's comforting, even if Louis' heart won't stop beating like a nervous hummingbird. Louis thinks he can see the stardust falling from Harry's eyelashes too, a cherub's pixie dust. Harry's eyes haven't left Louis' body when he leans down and kisses the hollow of Louis' collarbone and then Louis' hipbone.

- You need to eat more.

- Not now, Haz.

Louis replies tiredly, but Harry knows Louis needs to hear it. Louis can't really explain the way he understands how Harry sees this whole "Louis' thing", but Louis does. He knows how Harry thinks. For Harry, Louis is the one keeping all of Harry's pieces where they belong. And Louis' pieces, in Harry's view, aren't coming apart, they're just disintegrating. Louis wishes he could make Harry promises he knows he won't fulfill, but Louis would never be this cruel. He tries to let Harry take care of him instead, as a settlement, as a reward; as an apology for all the things he can't promise him.

- Always.

Harry seems worried for a second that Louis will break under his weight, under the weight of his love, because he only stares at Louis' belly, at Louis' shoulder, at Louis' legs, with a concerned air on his eyes, eyebrows furrowed and no smile. It takes a while for him to convince himself that Louis will survive, that Louis was made for this, but when he does, he crawls over Louis and presses their lips together, still wet and sweet, their hearts close enough to beat together, synced.

Without moving his body away from Louis', Harry extends his hand until Louis' nightstand and opens the small drawer. Louis has no idea what he's doing or what he expects to find there. Louis is holding on to Harry's curls when Harry's hand returns with a black marker Louis forgot inside this drawer since... since he wrote the letter, the getting away letter. Harry doesn't say anything as he uncaps the marker. He kisses Louis' cheek once and starts writing on Louis' belly like he has any right to.

\- That's not going to come off, Harry!

\- It's not supposed to.

Harry answers when he's done with his work. When Louis looks down at his body, a huge "BEAUTIFUL" is written across his belly. Louis smiles down at it because he doesn't deserve Harry. Next, Louis' shoulder receives a "PRETTY" and Louis' forearm a "MINE". Louis steals the marker from Harry before he transforms Louis into a comic book and he kisses Harry until their lips go numb against each other. Louis' mouth is hibiscus and Harry's lips are crimson and carmine and burgundy and cherry and they are all Louis'. Harry's cheeks are flushed red and Louis wants to eat him up, Louis loves him so.

\- I'm gonna kiss everything you're insecure about.

Louis giggles wetly.

\- Gonna kiss me all over, then, Curly.

\- That's the plan, yeah.

At first, Louis thinks that Harry is going to place both of his large hands into Louis' back pockets, because Louis is stupid like that and it sounds like something Harry would do. When Louis understands Harry's movement, though, Louis can feel a supernova being born inside his chest. It hurts wonderfully and it shines brighter than light itself, it blinds Louis to anything else but Harry; it ruins him for anyone else as well. Still, blinded by their supernova, Louis closes his eyes when Harry's hands find their way into the inside of Louis' skinny jeans.

\- I think I was meant to love you.

Louis wants to cry.

- Yeah?

\- Sometimes I feel like I was brought into existence to know you.

\- Harry...

- And that would be enough, you know? I promise you. Just knowing you. It would be enough.

\- Yeah, I know what you're saying.

Louis tells Harry because Louis really, really does know.

\- The idea that you would want me back? It's like... absurd. It makes me feel so...

Louis snorts.

\- I feel greedy.

\- I want you to be greedy.

Louis whispers his answer into Harry's ear and Harry visibly makes an effort not to moan, makes an effort not to make Louis his right now; not to make Louis Harry's, as if Louis wasn't already. Lava once again erupts inside of Louis' chest.

- I will. I will be greedy, baby.

Before Harry can pull down Louis' jeans, Louis thinks there's one more thing he needs Harry to know.

\- Harry?

\- Hm?

Harry's eyes are unfocused and big and wet, glassy. Harry looks like he's drunk, but it's all Louis. Louis wants to keep him this way forever.

\- I knew I loved you at first sight.

Harry smiles and it's not summer, it's a supernova.

\- Yeah?

Louis nods and closes his eyes when Harry's lips meet his.

Harry doesn't stop at Louis' mouth, though. First, Harry goes down to Louis' neck and Louis' sharp collarbones, mouthing up and down, leaving red stains behind. Louis feels electrified, feels like he's floating on their private ocean that only they know the rhythm, the rhythm of their tides. Harry's the moon, Louis' full moon, ruling over Louis' waves. Harry comes back up for Louis' chin, then, and the corner of Louis' lips and Louis' cheeks and when Harry reaches Louis' ear, he whispers:

- Baby, you are all I ever wanted love to be. You're everything.

And then:

- That's how much I love you.

And Louis can't resist, can never resist a chance of getting more with Harry, whatever it is. Louis grabs Harry's hair with his two hands and he says:

- I want you to tell me how much you love me again.

Louis can't help tugging on Harry's hair a little, only a little, only as a reminder of what they are doing, of how much Louis loves him. Louis wraps his legs around Harry's body, feeling completely exposed and naked, feeling completely safe; completely at home in Harry's arms.

\- Tell me how long you've loved me for.

Harry's nostrils are flared and his curls are all over the place and he looks like he's desperately trying to keep himself in control. Louis loves the effect he has on Harry, because Harry has the same one on Louis; Louis' heart wrapped around his fingers. For what Louis can see and feel, Harry's having a hard time holding back; judging by the way he keeps rutting forward into Louis' open tights, without any constant pace or rhythm.

- How long have I loved you? I told you this before.

Louis thinks "From womb to tomb", like it's a promise he wants Harry to make.

\- From womb to tomb, sweetheart.

Harry kisses him again, lips bitten-soft.

- I'll love you forever, baby, until I die. I have loved you since before I was here at all.

Louis is too overwhelmed to keep his eyes open, so he doesn't.

Louis' eyes are closed when he tugs on Harry's shirt until Harry takes it off.

Louis' eyes are trembling when Harry surrounds him and warms him up from the inside, burning Louis up, setting him on fire, melting their souls together for eternity. Louis' heart is the only blazing flame that will never turn to ash, "Our love is molded out of glitter and ash".

Louis' eyes are wet when Harry burns holes in Louis' skin with his mouth and when Harry promises Louis immortality, "You'll never die, Lou, you'll exist forever with me, wherever I am, forever, forever, I promise", Louis opens his eyes.

"Gonna write poems on your skin with my lips", Harry says, and that's what he does. That's what he does.

Before falling asleep, with Harry wrapped around his back - an inverted version of their usual koala bike position - Harry breathing warm and wet into his neck, Louis thinks nonsensically "I was just born in this bed". Maybe he was. Maybe Louis' birth is a supernova made out of love, made out of eternity. Maybe this is the beginning. Maybe this is everything.

❥


	4. The Revelation

** IV **

** THE REVELATION **

November 3rd

_Ooh whoa, ooh whoa, ooh whoa_

The first coherent thought that goes through Harry's mind, starting at the moment where he considers himself conscious enough to even have coherent thoughts in the first place, is "It's absolutely impossible that it's already 8am".

The second thought is "My head is going to explode".

_You know you love me, I know you care_

_Just shout whenever and I'll be there_

_You are my love, you are my he-_

Harry hits the alarm clock's off button a little harder than he exactly needed to and the clock ends up falling from his nightstand into the bedroom's floor but Harry's sure it didn't break - if it can handle Baby, it can handle a lot worse than a small fall - and that's what matters for now. From the perspective of an outsider, someone who would be secretly watching the scene of Harry's waking up, Harry would appear to be an aggressive man, even violent, smashing alarm clocks within seconds from waking up. He's aware of it, but that's not what this is. It would be unfair to judge him from moments like this, Harry wishes no one would judge him at all. He's not aggressive and he's not angry. Harry's just... tired. He would like to think that everyone would do the same in his situation: not only is he suffering from a migraine, he is also facing sleep deprivation, having barely slept at all during the night, too many awake nightmares. His thoughts are already all over the place and it's been less than a minute since he woke up and that's what scares him more than anything. It doesn't feel like it's going to be a good day.

As a rotten cherry on top of Harry's spoiled cake, he just woke up to Justin Bieber's voice. And he usually doesn't mind, but today it sounded like the song was ringing inside of his head, inside of his brain, coming out of his own mouth, coming out of his ears. It felt like he was singing it against his will. It was a terrible feeling.

Harry knows that he can change his waking-up-song at any time, through the alarm clock's Bluetooth system, but there's something sweet about thinking of Louis as the first thing in the morning, about opening his eyes while thinking about his sunshine boy. It's an attempt to start the day with happy thoughts. No one can say that Harry doesn't try. Thinking about Louis' loud voice, about Louis' strident laugh, inexplicably seems to balance out Harry's headache. It softens it a bit. If Harry does it in the right way, if he manages to bring Louis closer to him in his mind, his head stops being the problem: instead, it feels like it's Harry's heart that's going to explode; a painless explosion, bursting out of his chest. All he has to do is concentrate.

Harry closes his eyes and starts breathing slowly, trying to lose himself to the sweet vanilla smell of that feathery, cinnamon hair; soft against Harry's fingers. Harry's turquoise pillow is comfortable against his head and neck, his curly hair falling like a halo around it as he feels his body relaxing, mind diving head-first into the haze of blue eyes and pointy teeth. He almost falls asleep, but he doesn't. That is how he realizes that his mind is still quite distracted. He is still stuck in that magical place between dreaming and reality; a fog where he can't tell what's real and what isn't; where reality feels like a lucid dream. He's been feeling like this for a while lately. In this ephemeral state of mind, floating between two worlds, Harry's dream comes to him like a whisper of hope. Without opening his eyes, he stretches his left hand to the nightstand, grabbing the black journal he knows it's there. He grabs the pen as well. He does it relatively fast, so the memory won't abandon him; so he won't be left feeling all dark inside again. There's this warmness that comes with the haze of sleep that Harry can't lose. He only opens his eyes when the dream journal is right in front of his face. He sits up a bit, scooting to the right side of the bed, only to place the journal on the mattress, his bed acting as a clipboard. This, writing down his dreams, was something Dr. Mills initially asked of Harry, back when their sessions had started, back when things were worse. Since then, it became a habit Harry just can't let go of, especially since his dreams have been so colorful lately, so full of life. They taste real, Harry's dreams. They taste better than reality.

Harry carefully opens the journal and flips through its pages until he finds one that isn't written yet. He takes a deep breath and starts writing:

_November 3rd:_

_I dreamt about Louis again. It was dawn and we were running on an empty street. It was cold and we were holding hands. If I close my eyes now, I can still feel his fingers intertwined with mine. His fingers are way smaller. I could see his breathing too, white against the light of the few lightened lamp posts we passed by on our way to- I don't really know where we were going. I couldn't see much else because the night was pretty dark, only a few stars, but Louis was laughing loud and I feel like the sound of his laughter is stuck in my lungs._

Harry looks at his messy handwriting, rereads what he wrote so far and decides to write some more. It's supposed to be good for him, this writing down of what he thinks and of how he feels. It's supposed to help with his condition, therapeutic. Again, no one can say that Harry doesn't try.

_I don't think I will tell Louis about this one, though. I don't want to seem like I'm obsessed or something. It's the third night in a row that I dreamt about him and it's always cold, always in places I've never seen. But dreams like this make me happy; way better than... the other ones. Maybe this means we should see the world together. It's good to have a happy moment in the middle of the chaos that it sometimes erupts here. Maybe Louis is the only thing that still makes sense._

The power and the veracity of the last sentence makes Harry close his dream journal. He places it in the nightstand again, together with the pen, and lays back on his pillow. He starts breathing in and out again, slowly, and he manages to exhale three times when someone knocks on his bedroom door. He hates when he's too distracted to hear the elevator.

When Harry's bedroom door opens - without waiting for his permission, he can't help but noticing - the first thing that catches his attention is the fact that is not even 8:10 am yet, but Virginia Styles is already wearing a full face of perfectly done makeup, her dark hair in a bun on top of her head. She enters Harry's room smiling.

\- Morning, Harry.

Harry's voice is hoarse from the lack of use when he answers.

\- Hey, mom.

\- Ready for the day?

And Harry had almost, almost forgotten.

\- Yes, it's just another one of her parties, isn't it?

Harry can feel his head throbbing again.

\- Well, I'd rather see it as just another opportunity to have fun.

\- I don't usually have fun at those things... 

\- Well, maybe if you'd bring someone-

\- I'm not.

Virginia takes a deep breath, nods to herself and then slowly starts making her way towards Harry's bed. She sits by Harry's feet, on top of his duvet, and seems to be considering what to say next, carefully choosing her next sentence. She's avoiding Harry's eyes, running her hand through the soft duvet and Harry thinks she's acting like a professional lion tamer, as if she's locked in a cage with a scared, potentially dangerous lion and has to get out alive, without hurting herself nor the animal. Harry hates making her feel this way. He hates feeling like the uncontrollable animal in this story. In the end, she speaks after having taken another deep breath. Harry wishes it wasn't so hard for his own mother to talk to him, to have an honest conversation. He suspects that the barrier that sometimes emerges between them, eliminating any trace of mother-and-son closeness it's his own fault. He doesn't know how to apologize; doesn't know if he should.

\- You've been spending a lot of time away from home, Harry. I figured you had found someone cool to hang out with, thought you might bring them to Gemma's.

Harry knows he has to give her something, anything, doesn't matter how small it is. Otherwise she won't give up and this whole thing - this whole innocent morning talk thing - will end terribly. Harry can't hurt his tamer, no. He has to give her at least a bit of what she wants, even if only for the applause that will come later, in the form of Richard Styles' whispered "Has he really told you that? That's really good Virginia, you need to get him to talk to us" in the middle of the night, when Harry isn't listening. She would be proud of herself for having extracted some sort of information out of Harry, the dangerous lion. She would feel like the best tamer. There's no way Harry could hurt her. He's a well-behaved lion, the main attraction of the circus. A freak. An aberration.

\- I did meet someone, mom, I'm just not torturing them with that whole... experience.

To her credit, she ignores the way Harry might have offended Gemma's party and, instead, focuses excitedly on the first part of Harry's sentence.

\- Oh, did you, Harry?

\- Yeah.

Her eyes suddenly morph from excitement to concern. It hurts to watch.

\- Harry, are they-

\- Yes, mom.

\- Ok, sorry. Sorry.

She nods to herself again, as if she's having a conversation in her brain that she can't keep up. That's not it, though, otherwise she would be able to understand how Harry feels sometimes.

\- Do I get to meet them someday, then?

Harry isn't sure how much more he can give her. She's stressing the lion and the cage is shaking around them.

\- Someday, yeah. I think so.

She stares at Harry for a while longer and then she sighs. Loudly. Harry thinks she's about to start another round of questions about Harry's secret friend she so desperately wants to meet, but instead what comes is:

\- Have you taken your meds yet?

She never asks like this. Never in this direct, blunt way that stings deep down in Harry's heart and that sounds so crude in the morning light, making him feel ashamed. She asks in a way that appears as indecent to Harry as she thinks that talking about his condition is. Harry doesn't understand why she did it, if it was an accident or not, if she just needed to know, but he finds no traces of guilt in her eyes when he looks up at her and it's so annoying that right now she could be the sole source of his migraine.

- I'm literally in bed, mom.

She nods to herself again, maybe comforting her for the effort it takes to raise a son, a lion, like Harry. A problematic one.

\- Just... don't forget it, ok?

Harry only nods.

\- I'm going to help Gemma set up a couple of things for the party, she asked for some help… Will you meet me at Gemma's, then? Your father's at work still-

\- Yes, mom. I'll see you at Gemma's.

\- Noon, right?

\- Yes.

She pats the duvet twice before standing up. She reaches the bedroom door and is about to leave when she turns around.

\- Harry?

\- Yeah?

\- Don't be late.

She doesn't wait for his answer before heading to the elevator, leaving the bedroom door wide open behind her and that's the only reason strong enough to justify the way Harry gets out of bed, immediately and angrily. He slams his door shut as if this is a viable way of gaining any sort of privacy in this house; as if acting violently will get him anywhere, anywhere that he's alone and free. He places his right hand on the closed door, holding the weight of his body, because he feels dizzy after standing up so suddenly. His vision goes dark for a couple of seconds and he wants to cry from how weak he feels, but he doesn't. He waits until he's able to see a palm in front of his nose and heads to the bathroom.

He doesn't even bother locking the bathroom door, just drops to his knees in front of the sink, opens the cabinet, gets his towels out of the way and picks up his glass jar. He thinks of it as the strawberry jar, that's what it will always be called in his mind. It's like the jar is part Louis, part Harry: part strawberries and part pills. Sweetness and sickness. It balances out. It's a good thought to have. Harry places the jar on top on the sink, stands up and goes for the black square saucer. Three pills, one at the time, fall on top of so many others from previous days. Harry's a constructor, building a white and blue mountain of sanity in the shape of small capsules. He's proud of his work. He hides the jar when he's done. The whole process takes less than a minute.

Harry leaves the bathroom and starts the same daily routine. He doesn't change right away into his party clothes because he refuses to spend a second longer in the outfit his mother chose for him. Instead of heading to his closet, he goes to the elevator. It's breakfast time.

As Harry begins to leave his bedroom, his mind goes back to his secret pill's mountain, a micro universe inside of a strawberry jar, and he feels guilty. He feels dirty and greasy in a way he hasn't for a long time, like he doesn't belong in his own body. As if he isn't worthy of his body. Maybe he isn't. He presses the elevator button hard, five times in a row, hoping that the acidic feeling will go away if his brain has to focus on the pain coming from his fingertips, but it doesn't work. His fingertips do hurt and the feeling is still there. He knows he doesn't deserve his medication, his treatment. He hasn't done anything that would make him better than anyone else, after all. He isn't more worthy of life than the people who lose their lives because they can't afford the treatment for their sickness, whatever it might be. Harry has never worked (has never really worked, out of his own merit) in his life and if he was alone in this world, he wouldn't have the money to afford such an expensive treatment. He would probably go crazy. It's such a scary thought that Harry almost pukes. Maybe he could donate the pills, after the jar is full. The jar is getting there, actually, and there are too many people in need. Maybe Harry could do that. Yeah, maybe he could.

When Harry goes to press the elevator button again, he notices that the elevator is already on his floor, open doors waiting for him, and he doesn't know for how long it's been there. He looks at himself in the mirror and it's like he's speaking without his mouth even moving, a voice that can only be heard inside his own head.

_ You're quite slow today, hm?  _

Harry immediately closes his eyes and only opens them after the little shake from the elevator lets him know that he reached the living room floor. Their white fancy couch is still empty, spotless, and their family painting is still hanging behind the living room table and, with the exception of Harry, everything's the same. Harry tries not to pay attention to anything after that invasive thought, hoping that maybe this way, maybe if he goes through his day absent and inattentive, maybe there will be nothing worth mentioning by greasy voices he can't get rid of.

He knows Rosa would tell his parents if he skipped breakfast and he's already wasting medication, _spoiled and privileged kid_ , better not waste food as well. That's the only reason why he takes his usual seat at the living room table and waits until Rosa brings his scrambled eggs, croissants and black coffee. When she does, he tries to eat, really does, and if it only gets him halfway through the absurd amount of food, it's the best he can do. Rosa doesn't seem to think so, though, if the way she looks at Harry's half-eaten eggs when she comes to pick up his plate is anything to go by. Harry only closes his eyes and waits until she leaves.

\- Mr. Styles?

Harry opens his eyes slowly and is met with a concerned-looking Rosa, looking straight at his face. Then, Rosa looks at his plate and back to his face again, as if she's trying to point out to Harry what is wrong without having to explicitly tell him so. It would be slightly ridiculous for her to force Harry to eat. Harry wouldn't put it behind his parent's demands when she took the job. "In case of an emergency, please force-feed our problematic son". Why is Rosa still here, anyway? Harry would go as far away as he could and never look back. He doesn't want to think about that, though, because it will only lead to him losing himself to his thoughts like he apparently already did, considering Rosa's increasingly concerned expression. Harry is going to answer her, of course he is, he's just feeling a bit slower today. Before he can answer her, though, she says:

\- Harry?

And that is what causes a small alarm on Harry's brain to go off because Rosa would never call him Harry if she had any alternative. The always professional Ms. Rosa Garcia Anderson wouldn't lower herself to such familiarity, to such intimacy; not with Harry at least. When Harry looks up at her, he expects to find her a bit scared, still controlling her facial expression, sure, but unable to contain all her apprehension, letting a bit of fear slip through. That's not what Harry finds. She's a strong woman, Rosa. When Harry looks up at her, she's just looking back at Harry as if waiting for his approval to act. Harry feels that if he simply nodded at her right now, Rosa would call his parents immediately, telling them that "Harry's not feeling well again" and that would be it. It would, but Harry won't nod. He refuses to start that chain reaction again.

\- Are you ok?

\- Hm?

\- Aren't you hungry anymore?

Harry doesn't know what she expects from him, but she's looking at him with such distress in her eyes that it feels like she's the one responsible for him in this world. And she isn't. Harry knows she isn't. It isn't her job to take care of Harry like this. She shouldn't be looking at Harry with such maternal concern.

\- No, not today, no. Not really.

\- There's no problem. That's ok.

She comes a bit closer to Harry's chair and then stops. She takes a deep breath.

\- Are you ok?

For a second that will only exist in another galaxy, in a different universe, far away from here, Harry answers her. He doesn't know how he starts, doesn't know where he's going, but he feels like he tells her everything. He starts before Rosa even knew him, starts before his first symptoms appeared, before being taken out of school, before Chuck's chemotherapy. He is pretty sure he finishes by telling her exactly where his strawberry jar is hidden, filled with a mountain made out of Harry's dreams of living a normal life. In another galaxy, Rosa will help him. In this one, before Harry can start answering her, she speaks again.

\- Mr. Styles?

It may be the return of the formality, the distance that necessarily comes with a professional relationship, but any honest answer that Harry could possibly give her evaporates out of Harry's mind. He will later wonder if he really was going to ask Rosa for her help, will wonder if it would have been a good idea; if it would have made a difference. As it is, in this galaxy, it doesn't matter anyway.

\- Just tired, Rosa.

Harry says while he starts standing up from his usual seat. It's a slower process than it usually is, since he feels slightly dizzy, but that Rosa doesn't seem to notice, too busy paying attention to half-eaten eggs instead of noticing boys with half a soul, boys with half of a working brain. Priorities, after all.

\- I'm gonna get ready, yeah?

He doesn't wait for her answer, even when he can feel her eyes burning the side of his face with the heat of concern, of doubt. Harry wonders if she's considering whether to let him go. If she is or isn't, she doesn't stop him. He makes his way to the elevator and squeezes his eyes shut until it reaches the attic. Doesn't look at the mirror, doesn't hear anything other than the elevator noise. It's as good as it gets.

Entering his bedroom, Harry heads straight for his closet, without overthinking any of his steps. He picks up the ridiculous outfit his mother chose for him and puts it on without looking at it once. He only does look at it when he's standing in front of his closet mirror, the big one, all dressed up. It's the first time he laughs all day and it feels like the first time he breathed all week. It's a white party, he knew about that, but this tuxedo makes him look like a best man at the corniest wedding ever, like a cliché high school boy who couldn't dress for prom and thinks that is handsome enough to pull any look. It's absolutely ridiculous. It's absolutely pompous. The thought that makes Harry laugh while looking at himself in the mirror, though, is about Louis. Harry can't even imagine the amount of shit Louis would give him if he saw Harry in this. Harry closes his eyes, searching for Louis' voice somewhere in his brain, in the small treasure chest where he keeps his happy memories, and can almost hear a "Oh my God, am I being robbed by a very handsome Italian mobster with the worst fashion taste possible?", but it's too distant. Too far away to be here with Harry. Harry's alone and his laughter is gone.

Harry barely feels his feet moving, but he is aware that he left his bedroom and is now getting off the elevator on the living room floor. He doesn't say goodbye to Rosa, there's no reason to do it, and just heads straight for his bike. He's still getting the bike off the wall rack when Rosa appears, eyes larger than usual.

\- Mr. Styles, what are you doing?

There's a fine line between wanting to be alone and not wanting to be lonely. Harry isn't as balanced as his mother and his desire for Rosa to be anywhere else but here would probably make him fall off his own tightrope. Harry wouldn't mind. Louis would probably catch him.

\- I'm getting the bike for... for Gemma's thing.

\- Carl is waiting for you, Mr. Styles. I told you. He's driving you to the party.

Oh.

Did Rosa really tell him that already?

\- Imagine getting that pretty clothes wrinkled and dirty, Mr. Styles. Ms. Styles would be really upset.

That's what Harry thinks that Rosa says, but he isn't really listening anymore. What difference does it make to pay her attention when she doesn't reciprocate when Harry needs her to? It makes none. Harry's going with Carl, then. Good.

Harry missed the subtle, all-encompassing haze of homophobia during their car rides.

The last coherent thought Harry has before letting go of his bike and heading to the garage’s door - that is, if he's even conscious enough to have coherent thoughts anymore - is that if this day gets any worse, Harry's head might as well stop playing its migraine games and just explode once and for all. Just put an end to all of this nonsense. What difference does it make when his head doesn't work in the way it was supposed to? What difference does it make when Harry isn't sane to begin with? There's nothing to lose.

❥

Rationally, Harry knows Carl isn't driving the same car he used to drive when Harry was a kid. Still, it's hard to convince his brain of that information. It sure looks like the same fancy black sedan, especially with Carl standing next to it, holding its door open for Harry while wearing the same old driver cap he used to wear all the time back then. The grey cap is clearly a size too small for Carl's head, already was 10 years ago, and it gives him an air of goofiness. He looks silly, like a grown man in a child's hat. Carl doesn't seem to notice, otherwise he would never wear it. Harry knows Carl would never make a fool of himself, too self-conscious for it, too male-alpha to be mocked by anyone, under any circumstances. Harry's pretty sure Carl considers the cap part of his uniform, like a certificate that proves that he is, indeed, a driver and is very good at it. Old habits die hard.

Harry gets into the car after sending a short nod at Carl and when Harry slides through the back seat, the leather feels exactly the same way it used to feel years ago, cold and slippery against his fingertips. Even the citric smell from Carl's air freshener is the same it was a decade ago. Entering Carl's car, Harry enters a time tunnel and he feels young and naive; unprotected and alone. He chooses not to feel anything anymore, for as long as he can.

\- Looking good, kid.

It's the first thing Carl says to Harry and Harry tries to smile back at him, but judging by the small portion of Carl's face that Harry can see from the rear-view mirror - now serious and attentive - Harry's attempt at a smile falls short. It's ok, Carl is used to it, used to Harry. Carl takes his eyes off of Harry's face and starts the car. The radio immediately turns on, connected to Carl's phone through Bluetooth. Chris Martin's voice fills up the silence.

_Come up to meet you_

_Tell you I'm sorry_

_You don't know how lovely you are_

_I had to find you_

_Tell you I need you_

_Tell you I set you apart_

\- Do you like this one?

- Hm?

\- This song. Coldplay, isn't it?

Harry doesn't answer but Carl goes on, as if he did.

\- Do you like it? I think your sister does, at least she used to when she was younger. She made this playlist years ago, especially for our car rides.

\- Oh.

\- I listen to it all the time.

Harry nods.

\- So, do you like it?

\- Hm? Oh, yeah. Sure.

Harry tries to put some emotion into his voice, but Carl doesn't seem convinced.

\- I can change it, kid. Do you want me to put on something else?

- No, Carl, it's ok.

\- I want you to enjoy this ride, kid. It's been a while since it's been just the two of us in the car, right?

\- I'll enjoy anything, Carl.

\- Let's see what we have here, then. There's-

\- Carl. Really. I'm not even paying attention anyway.

That is what seems to convince Carl that Harry isn't worthy of his further friendly approach. Carl only turns up the music volume without expressing any reaction. That changed, then. When Harry was a kid, Carl would never give up on a conversation like this one this easily, he wouldn't give up without at least one loud puff of air. Maybe he got softer with age, who would have known?

Carl only tries to talk to Harry again after the song is finished. Harry isn't sure if it takes him this long because he truly appreciates the song and wants to wait for it to be over or if it's simply because he was trying to come up with another appropriate topic of discussion to bother Harry with. Whatever reason that lead him to it, when he speaks next, he asks:

\- So, excited about Gemma?

Harry thinks his ability to fake enthusiasm when answering this specific question ran out after the third or fourth time he had to do so. Still, he tries a bit for Carl. Harry doesn't take his eyes off the road, watching the trees and the people and the other cars passing them by at a high speed, but he tries to give his voice a friendlier tone when he answers Carl.

\- Yeah. It's really exciting.

He fails. Carl doesn't call him out on it.

\- I remember you two when you were ten years old, eight years old... It's crazy, kid. And now you're all grown up...

Harry doesn't feel grown up. Never felt younger than he does his right now, actually; misses his younger years with a fire that leaves blisters inside his chest. He misses the time when he was innocent, even more naive; happier.

\- And now she's getting married. Married, kid! Isn't that exciting?

Carl sounds more like he's trying to convince Harry than actually trying to have a conversation with him. Again, Harry tries a bit harder for Carl, tries to dig up his inexistent enthusiasm.

- Yeah. It's really exciting.

\- Do you think it will be you there sometime soon? Big party, pretty lady in white by your side...

Carl is looking at Harry through the rear-view mirror and that's how Harry knows that there's no way Carl missed the shake of Harry's head. Harry doesn't want to explain. Carl understands what Harry isn't saying.

The silence that takes over their ride is only interrupted when they reach their destination, a palatial building Harry never seen before, perfectly decorated for the occasion. Carl starts unbelting his seatbelt - only to follow the protocol Harry's mother taught him; getting out of the car and opening the backseat door for her children - when Harry opens his own door. Carl looks back at Harry as if he was already expecting that Harry would leave the car without his assistance. Harry doesn't understand how his mother and Gemma appreciate this kind of service; to him, it feels only artificial and arrogant.

Harry is closing the car door when Carl opens up his window, the driver's one, right next to where Harry's standing.

\- Kid?

Harry only looks at him, showing that he has Harry's attention.

\- If you ever need anything, yeah?

Harry nods like Carl offering his help makes any sense whatsoever. Deep down, Harry's stomach clenches with the realization that even Carl, the homophobic, distant driver who never really pays any attention to Harry can tell how bad Harry truly is. Even Carl can tell how far away Harry's thoughts are. Harry should have perfected his sane act years ago. It never fails to impress him how he managed to fail at even the simplest of tasks: existing.

❥

Harry can tell, from the second he walks through the palatial building's high, pivot glass door, that he was right when he decided not to bring Louis to this thing. Doesn't matter how much Louis had joked about it, with his "Don't invite me to Gemma's party, curly, I will look better than her and it will be embarrassing for us both". Harry was right. It would be wrong to mix something as pure as Louis with... this, whatever this is. A heresy. Louis doesn't belong here and Harry's glad he didn't bring him. They both understand why.

The party is crowded, being hosted at this large, perfectly green garden, on the back of the palatial building Harry first saw when he arrived with Carl. All the different guest faces blend in together in Harry's mind, to the point where Harry can't tell them apart, especially considering how everyone is wearing the exact same color. Harry speculates whether these people are really different from one another at all, they seem only small, insignificant drops in a white ocean of boredom, of normality. It's disgusting. Harry envies them. He would give anything to be another tasteless water drop instead of this black drop of poison, different and lonely, standing out due to its sadness. As Harry starts to slowly take in the view in front of him, trying to look socially acceptable while doing so, he wonders when Gemma even had enough time to meet this many people. He wonders if she enjoys this lifestyle, the popular, busy one; a bad copy of their parents'. Harry questions whether she feels like her privacy was violated as well at some point through their lives, if she feels molded without her consent; if she would choose something different if she could. Harry doesn't need to see her, doesn't need to ask her to know her answer: "There are sacrifices worth making, Junior".

Harry knows she is the only person in this whole party that he truly wants to see, even if only so that she will know that he came here for her, only so she would know that she's worth his effort. Gemma understands better than most people how much it means when Harry tries his best. He can't remember the last time he saw her outside her monthly events, the last time they really talked, and the thought stings like a hard slap on top of a sunburn. Harry decides to start looking for her. The first known person he spots, though, is his father. Richard Styles has a cigar between his lips and is laughing loudly with William's father (whose name Harry can't remember), both of them surrounded by a smelly smoke cloud. They get along, Richard and William's nameless father. Harry guesses they recognize each other, having shared the same life goals: marry rich and then marry their heirs rich. It worked out for both of them. Maybe they are celebrating their victory right now, both of them thinking that they managed to trick the other into the marriage thing. Two tasteless kings uniting their kingdom in the middle of a tacky white party. Harry has no time for this sort of bullshit right now.

Eyes closed, Harry takes a deep breath until he feels like he is capable of tricking this extravagant elite into believing that Harry is just another one of them, as if they are that bigger thing that Harry wants to be a part of, the bigger thing that makes Harry feel less lonely. They aren't, obviously, never will be, but if Harry tries hard enough, he can pretend that he's back at the Northlake Park, holding Louis' hand while the sunlight surrounds them like a golden cloak, protecting them from the world. Harry is still trying to imagine what would be the exact texture of his and Louis' protective mantle when he spots his mother, a couple feet away from Harry's dad, socializing in a different circle of rich snobs. Virginia Styles looks impeccable in her white long-sleeved dress, a modern version of Greece's Athena. Walter Birk has his calloused, wrinkled hand on the small of her back as they both laugh politely at some joke another member of their exclusive circle must have told them and Harry is suddenly irrationally afraid that Walter is somehow corrupting her even more through his physical touch. It's as if Walter is tying her up with invisible, evil roots that come out of his poisoned fingers. Harry doesn't want to, but can't help seeing Walter as this greasy oil drop with enough power to ruin thousands of gallons of clear, pure water. Harry tries to quiet down the urge to push him away from her, no explanations needed. The worst that could happen is that everyone here would find him crazy and, honestly, there's nothing new there. Maybe it's a risk worth taking, after all. To Harry's mind, Walter is nothing but a poisoned person that damages everything he touches. It kills Harry to see that what Walter is currently touching is Harry's own mother. Just then, as if being able to sense the tension coming from Harry and aiming to keep up the appearances, Walter retreats his hand from Virginia's lower back and reaches for a cigar. With a shiver running down his spine, Harry thinks about how he never once considered Richard's similarity to Walter. Maybe Harry's just being raised by two watered down versions of his nightmare. Feeling his migraine returning, even stronger than before, Harry decides to focus on his mother instead; Harry's Athena, Harry's own lion tamer, never free enough to reach Australia. Maybe if Harry could be more like her - sociable, liked and, most importantly, adequate - he wouldn't be so lonely. Maybe if he had inherited her best genes and not this "broken genetics", he could be chatting in the same social circle that she is right now, socializing, listening to the same old boring stories told by the same old boring people, and feeling like he belongs. Looking at her now, Harry wonders how she can transform herself like that, so deeply that all traces of the person she was before, a minute ago, are completely erased (temporarily erased, Harry hopes). She shapes who she is, her personality, her dreams, her stories, according to the environment surrounding her. A chameleon. Virginia Styles: Transformer. Who even is Lou Reed? Harry can see the way her perfume is getting lost in the middle of the smoke coming from Walter's now burning cigar and he wishes he could take her away and save her, but it's way too clear that, just like Gemma, she doesn't want to be saved. She made her choice years ago, "there are sacrifices worth making". As she puts on her transformation show involved by Walter's smoke, Harry recalls the cigarette they once shared. She looks like someone else right now.

Maybe it's the way Virginia laughs an absurdly fake laugh and no one seems to notice that it isn't genuine; maybe it's the way she fits in wherever she wants to fit. Whatever it is, it makes Harry realize that no one really needs him here and only Gemma would be happy to see him (not happy, but glad, Harry thinks; hopes). Harry is aware that alcohol may be an easy solution for the emptiness he feels inside - Louis has told him about his alcoholic father enough for Harry to understand the addicting pull - and Harry wishes he could drink here, in front of all of them, but he can't. At least, not according to Dr. Mills. Harry is also sure that if he as much as glanced at a whisky dose for too long, Virginia and Richard would race against each other to see who will first ask Harry "What do you think you're doing? Are you trying to cause problems?". It's a competition Harry doesn't want to encourage.

Harry is about to continue his painful exploration, trying to make his way around the ocean of blank people in white clothes, when a strong hand claps his shoulder. He must have been looking around for too long or standing still for too long or doing anything that isn't socially acceptable in this kind of environment for someone to approach him. His sane act should have been perfected months ago, years ago. Harry will never fail to disappoint himself in that matter. He's afraid to turn around without knowing who is about to talk to him, but the person is kind enough to speak out first. It's William, then. Billy.

\- Hey, big boy, are you lost?

Only after hearing William's slightly lisp speech, added to his thin voice, does Harry turn around. He is immediately met with William's cowlick hair; his white tuxedo a tackier version of Harry's. Instead of feeling glad that he isn't the worst dressed of the whole party (Harry already knew he wasn't as soon as he saw William's nameless father), Harry feels bad for being a part of the whole thing at all. The white tuxedo holds a certain weight to it, the weight of a tasteless dynasty, and Harry wishes he could be as far from this as possible.

\- Are you looking for your sister?

First, Harry can't help looking straight at William's skinny hand, for some inexplicable reason still holding Harry's shoulder. As soon as Harry does look at it, though, William takes his hand back. Good for him. Personal space with your future brother-in-law and all that. Then, Harry looks at William's face, slowly. Harry's actually feeling quite slow right now. He feels like he is underwater; the pressure and the inability to breathe right, the feeling of slowly drowning. His migraine might be returning as well, even if it never really left in the first place.

\- Your mom? Your dad?

William is analyzing Harry's every little move; Harry can feel it. It reminds Harry of his last year in high school, all his classmate's eyes on him, dissecting, inspecting, scrutinizing, waiting for the perfect detail to be mocked, to be made fun of. Harry quiets down the urge to tell William to fuck off. He's not feeling well enough for that kind of argument and it could get dangerous if Harry can't control what he's saying. It has gotten dangerous before. It's not worth risking this whole party, not for William. Harry has a thousand different answers from him. Still, he settles on:

\- Hm?

Just as William - "Billy, Harry, Billy. That's how we call him. Don't you understand? It's condescending" - is about to repeat himself, Gemma arrives. Thank God. She is looking stunning in her golden party dress; the bride-to-be is the only one not wearing white in this party; Harry kind of likes the concept. Gemma's holding a half-full glass of expensive champagne, her blonde hair falling from her shoulders like a silky cascade. Willia- Billy is a lucky boy.

\- There's my dream girl - Billy says as he kisses Gemma's cheek. And then, in a lower voice - I think your brother is having... a headache.

The way he says it is blunt, rude even, but still takes Harry a while to fully understand what he's saying. Harry feels underwater after all. Submerged. When Harry does understand, though, he knows that "headache" is obviously a code word for something else. Apparently, Gemma has shared enough with Billy about Harry's mental stability (or lack of it, really). Harry feels invaded and it's a sunburn slap all over again, but he tries not to mind, he tries to be polite. Looking up at Gemma and finding her guilty expression, Harry knows he's right. She told Billy, then.

Gemma's expression takes a second to completely transform itself, going from guilt to anger. Harry appreciates it.

\- Bill, do you see Lillian's table over there?

\- Yeah...

Gemma's tone is snappy when she speaks to Billy. Maybe someday, after Harry has fully absorbed the fact that she shared Harry's most obscure secrets with this pretentious cowlick-haired, tacky-tuxedo-wearer man, Harry can forgive her.

\- Their whisky is over. Go fix it.

She pushes Billy when she's done and Harry thanks her mentally, slowly, underwater. He hopes she notices it. Gemma waits until Billy is out of sight, until he can't hear them anymore and turns her head to Harry, still sporting a slight blush on her cheeks.

\- So, how many parties do I have to throw for you to bring Michael with you, Junior?

Before Harry realizes, he is already answering her.

- Aren't personal trainers considered too low of a job to get through the door?

Gemma's eyebrows raise subtly, but she contains her expression fast enough.

\- Hm, I'm not sure you noticed, but I'm your sister, Gemma. I'm not Walter.

- Hm.

\- I'm joking about Michael, by the way. I just thought Louis would appreciate seeing you in this tuxedo, yeah? Looking this good-

Harry's already shaking his head.

\- Oh, no, he wouldn't.

Gemma looks at Harry weirdly, not analyzing yet, but getting there.

\- Of course he would-

\- You don't know him. He would hate everything about this.

That's what it takes for Gemma to start analyzing Harry and it's high school all over again. She's more delicate than Harry's classmates ever were, but there's never a comfortable way to torture someone.

They stay in silence for longer than it is usual.

\- Speaking of which, when will I?

- Hm?

\- Get to know Louis.

- I don't know, Gems, maybe in your next engagement party, yeah?

Gemma looks at Harry as if Harry's completely lost. Maybe she's his savior, maybe she's the only one beside Louis that can see how deeply submerged Harry is. Underwater. Maybe she isn't. What difference does it make? Gemma furrows her eyebrows and places his hand on Harry's shoulder. It may be only a psychological effect, but it feels way softer, more caring than the way Billy did a couple of moments ago.

\- Harry. Is this a code red?

They made up this code when they were kids, "code red". It used to mean anything from "Mom's mad" to "I just fell and hurt myself". As Harry's condition progressed, "code red" became a very particular term to a very particular situation. For the last decade, it has always referred to Harry's mental instability. This, right now, is clearly a code red. Harry knows it is. It's always a code red when Harry isn't breathing right, when he isn't thinking right; whenever he ends up hearing voices inside his head that aren't his own.

Instead of answering her honestly, Harry lets his eyes travel through her golden dress; perfectly made for her, perfectly matching the decor of the whole party, Her party. Her engagement party. This is not the place nor the time to trigger a code red. This is her moment, Harry isn't selfish enough to steal it from her.

\- No, no, Gems. I'm just tired. Didn't sleep well.

\- But you need to sleep, H.

\- Well, then I shouldn't be forced to wake up so early, then. If I need sleep, that is.

Gemma furrows her eyebrows for the second time in less than two minutes.

\- The point is for you to have a routine, Harry. You know how it is!

- Nothing more routine than hosting an engagement party a month, right?

Harry gives her a dry smile that he immediately regrets while she only stares at him carefully, analyzing him in a way that doesn't really hurt, but that it doesn't really comfort him either. Impartial.

\- I get it if you're in a bad mood or if you didn't get enough sleep or whatever. I don't care. I care about another thing, though, so I'm gonna ask you again and don't think I won't abandon this whole party, because I will, Harry. I'll abandon it.

Harry can only concentrate on not crying.

\- Are you okay?

Gemma speaks slowly as if Harry is an idiot, unable to understand what she's saying, and Harry tries to convince himself that it isn't offensive and that she's only worried. She's here, worried about Harry while her wedding party keeps happening all around her; a party where she should be smiling and talking to all of her guests.

\- Yes. Stop looking at me with that mom look.

\- I'm sorry.

\- Yeah, I-

\- I'm sorry, you're right. I'm sorry.

There's a perfectly dressed waiter, in a perfectly ironed uniform, right behind Gemma when she looks behind herself. She cheers and immediately grabs a glass of cold orange juice, handing it to Harry.

\- Here. I promise you it's the best drink in the whole party.

Harry rolls his eyes at her, a habit he's pretty sure he got from Louis.

\- Your guests are waiting for you, you know?

\- Well, you're the only guest I care about.

Right then, Billy's mom - as nameless in Harry's mind as Billy's father - starts calling Gemma's name. Gemma doesn't go to her immediately. Instead, she grabs both of Harry's hands and holds them tight.

\- Will you let me know? If you need me?

Harry nods. Gemma smiles.

He waits until she is distant, not paying attention to him anymore, too involved in whatever Billy's mom is telling her, to place the orange juice glass onto the closest table. Harry takes a look at the whole party then and, not for the first time - and he's sure that not for the last as well - notices that time seems to be passing by slower than usual, matching Harry's pace. His head is throbbing and the tuxedo is making him sweat; nothing really makes sense and everything feels worryingly empty. Harry can't be here anymore. He's going to leave, he decides. He already talked to Gemma and he isn't a masochist, there's no reason for him to stay here a second longer. He's about to start his escape plan when a rough hand grabs Harry's shoulder, harsher than Billy had, and stills him. Harry's last thought before turning around is "Not this again, please".

It's not Billy, though.

It's Richard.

It's Richard and he's not alone, accompanied by a work friend from what Harry can tell and this work friend's daughter. Harry already knows what's going to happen before it even begins. He wishes he was anywhere else but here.

\- Harry! - Richard says while clapping his work friend's back - This is Doctor Theodore Rhodes.

Doctor Theodore Rhodes is a short, large man, currently wearing a white button-down shirt way too open around his neck, in Harry's opinion, which leads Doctor Theodore Rhodes to show too much cleavage. Around his neck, there's a heavy gold chain that shines even brighter than the bald space in the center of his head. That bald space is only reflecting the sunlight, Harry realizes, due to the amount of sweat accumulated there. Harry has to look away, lowering his eyes to Doctor Theodore Rhodes's hands. He's wearing large gold rings in almost all of his swollen fingers and in one hand, he's holding a half-empty glass of whisky. Harry can smell it on his breath.

\- You can call me Teddy, kid.

Of course Harry can. Teddy has a large, drunken smile on his face when he addresses Harry, but all Harry can look at are the small white spots around Teddy's eyes. He looks like a reversed-panda, if pandas were always ugly and drunk. It's quite obvious that Teddy is a fan of artificial tanning, but these specific white spots don't look healthy at all and Harry thinks a respectful doctor should be a bit more concerned about them. When Teddy starts speaking again, all exaggerated gestures and repetitive words, Harry finally realizes who Teddy reminds him of: Teddy looks like a Floridian version of Trump, if Donald had way less money and any medical abilities.

\- I've known your dad for ages. Believe me, kid. - Teddy says as if Harry had any reason not to believe him - I'm a huge fan.

Richard laughs and says:

\- We met at that one Medical Congress in Chicago. Do you remember that one, Harry?

Harry obviously doesn't.

\- Sure.

Richard seems happy with Harry's answer.

\- Teddy here is a plastic surgeon and-

\- Of course I am! - Teddy interrupts - Who wouldn't want to… you know?

Teddy speaks while gesturing with one open hand in front of his chest, the one that isn't holding the half-empty glass of expensive whisky. He's clearly trying to make a boob reference while squeezing the empty air in front of him and Harry tries, really tries to laugh, but instead, what comes out is a closed-lip smile paired with raised eyebrows. If this is how Teddy behaves while his daughter is standing right behind him, Harry doesn't want to imagine what Teddy is like in a boy's night out.

Richard seems to notice Harry's discomfort, because he interrupts Teddy's explicit gestures:

\- And, anyway, Teddy brought his daughter here...

Harry wants to die.

\- The beautiful Megan.

As soon as Richard says it, Teddy pulls the girl, Megan, by her skinny arm from behind him, like she's a doll unable to move by her own will.

Richard continues:

\- She was feeling alone in the middle of this unfamiliar crowd and like you're- and I thought you two could maybe explore this party together. What do you think?

This is the first time Harry looks at the girl, actually looks at her. She seems almost as uncomfortable as he is and that is somewhat better. Maybe they can make this whole thing last as quickly as possible, making both of their fathers satisfied only by the fact that they shared a conversation, and just get it over with. That would be great. Megan is wearing a white tiara in her wavy blonde hair that perfectly matches the white shade of her short dress. She looks rich, a younger version of Gemma. She looks like every other girl in this party, nothing really interesting about her (even if it's not her fault, it's Harry's, he knows).

\- Hi - she says while extending her skinny hand to him, and Harry couldn't tell her voice apart from any other woman's voice in this place.

Harry shakes her hand.

\- Harry, isn't it? Are you back from college?

Harry looks at Richard, just to be sure, just to check if there are any guidelines Harry should follow while answering Megan's question, but Richard is already talking to Teddy excitedly, whisky and cigar in his hands.

- I don't really go to college, no.

For the fourth time since Harry arrived at Gemma's party, someone taps him on the shoulder. It feels just as terrible as it did the first time.

\- I'm gonna leave you two alone, Harry - Richard says with a smug smile on his voice.

Teddy adds a "Behave, young lady" that neither Harry nor Megan chose to comment on. Harry only looks at the ground to avoid rolling his eyes. As Richard and Teddy return to their table, where there are several different versions of Teddy and Richard waiting for them, there's only silence between Harry and Megan. And then, she starts their interaction with a question Harry never once received before.

\- Are you excited for the wedding?

Harry is tired and his head is throbbing. "Hello, migraine, my old friend. I've missed you. Make yourself at home".

\- Well, I'm not the bride.

Megan laughs like it's a joke when it really isn't supposed to be, but it's ok. It's better than the silence. Her laugh is contained and perfectly adequate to flirting in a space like this. Harry feels sorry for all the ways she's been trained, for all the personality she left out.

\- I'm not the one who has to be excited.

She nods, but she didn't hear a word Harry said.

\- I'm excited! Even not being the bride and all... I love weddings!

Harry nods.

\- Do you... do you already have a plus-one?

Harry takes a deep breath because he doesn't want to sound rude, it's the last thing he wants, really, and Megan hasn't done anything wrong to him. She is just a victim of bad luck, having a father with such a close buddy-relationship with Harry's father. It's just bad luck. So, the last thing Harry wants is to sound rude. The first thing he wants is to leave. He ends up shrugging.

\- Do you?

Megan clearly didn't expect to have the question thrown back at her. She seems surprised, but quickly smiles an appropriate smile.

\- I'm looking for one, actually.

She says it with a level of confidence Harry doesn't think he will ever reach. She smiles cutely at him, perfectly trained, and for a second, Harry feels sorry for her. Maybe she's just as alone as Harry was and doesn't even realize. Harry hopes Megan has her own Louis, otherwise Harry can't imagine how terrible life would be.

The thought makes Harry unable to reciprocate her cute, trained smile and for the next 10 seconds, it's all silence. Silence and Megan's brain working to choose the next topic of conversation. Usually, Harry would help her; it's just that today he can't. Really can't. When she does come up with the next topic, it's not exactly what Harry was expecting, but it's really close, close enough to be predictable. She asks it with a bit more of excitement than Harry was expecting, though, and Harry has got to give it to her: she's persistent. It's probably an encouraged feature in this type of social circle: persistence; perseverance; hard work. Maybe Megan is their next revelation, the next social queen of their community. After Gemma, that is.

\- So, now that you're back from college...

Harry doesn't correct her.

\- And we're kind of going to the same places...

Harry will probably need to spend at least 10 hours alone, with Louis, to balance out the effects of attending this one particular party. No one on earth would describe him as a sociable boy. "My solitary monk". And there may be a polite way to make Megan better understand this side of Harry, but Harry just can't find one right now and even if he did, Megan isn't listening to the few words he's saying anyway.

\- Me and my friends are throwing a pool party tomorrow and I think you should come, I think you would enjoy it.

Harry doesn't answer because there's nothing to be said.

\- If you want to, you can put your number here and I'll text you the address, the time and everything.

She places her phone in Harry's hand without waiting for him to agree to anything.

She's batting her eyelashes while she does it and Harry can admit, from an objective point of view, that she's good. Harry's still not interested.

\- I'm gonna go to the bathroom really quick, yeah? I'll meet you here in a second.

Harry stands still, holding her phone in his hands, for almost 10 seconds, deciding what to do now. That's when the idea comes to him. A lit lightbulb. Louis would be proud of him. Harry's fingers start moving before he actually remembers commanding them to and the number that's popping up on Megan's phone screen is the one number Harry has always known by heart. It's the number his mother made him memorize when he was eight; a number that, just like his owner, never changed. Harry never thought he would call it willingly.

\- Carl? Hey. It's Harry.

Harry takes a deep breath.

\- Styles, yeah. Can you come pick me up, please?

❥

The closer they get to the brown and red chalet, the better Harry can breathe and by the time Harry spots the Whipped's little chimney, he's almost smiling.

Carl stops the car right in front of the charming wood door, takes a look at the view in front of him and turns around in his seat to look at Harry. He seems glad that Harry called him, that Harry once in his life actually chose, by himself, to use Carl's services.

\- Gonna grab some coffee, kid? - Carl asks.

Harry isn't bothered by the fact that Carl seems to address Harry in the same way that Teddy did. He isn't. He barely even notices that Carl still treats him like a helpless child, inadequate and lost.

Harry isn't bothered at all.

- Gonna read a bit, yeah...

\- There's probably a lot of interesting people for you in there, isn't it? For you to meet and all?

Harry knows there aren't. Not right now, anyway.

\- Sometimes we can get too stuck in our heads and end up missing a ton of cool stuff around us, you know, when we don't pay attention to... to the world around us.

Harry decides to look around, then, just to prove a point and yes, they are in an empty parking lot in the middle of the woods. The only thing visible is the Whipped and, except for the chalet, there's nothing around. He should let Carl know that the "world around them" is nothing but an empty parking lot. An empty parking lot without Louis. No fun in that. Harry snorts so Carl can stop talking and adds:

- Already met a lot of interesting people today, actually... Really looking for some silence, for some alone time now.

Carl nods as if this is a feeling he would ever share.

\- Yeah, I know how it is. You're a quiet kid, always has been, since you were little.

It's the way Carl says the word "quiet", with an intimacy he does not deserve, has not earned, as if he has ever cared about Harry's quietness. There's a fine line of mutual courtesy in Harry and Carl's relationship - where they don't try and don't pretend to know one another - and Carl just crossed that line. Harry opens the backseat door.

\- Thank you for today, Carl.

Harry closes the backseat door and stands next to Carl's rolled-down window.

\- Have a great day, yeah?

\- You too, kid.

Harry is about to turn around, but Carl continues:

\- If your mother asks, should I tell her that I dropped you here? The Whipped? Is that it?

Harry can see clearly in Carl's eyes how excited he is for Harry to say "no", for Harry to say "actually, Carl, I'm gonna need you to keep this a secret". Carl is smiling like he's about to enter in a complicated lie with Harry, like he wants to. Right now, Carl may be looking at Harry, but what he is seeing is a teenager Gemma, long wavy hair and dark makeup, sneaking out of the house in her mini skirt, hours past her curfew. Harry isn't Gemma, Carl shouldn't have expected anything different than what he gets.

\- Sure, Carl, whatever.

Harry smiles to soften the blow and turns around, heading towards the entrance door of the Whipped. Once he gets inside, he goes straight to the ordering counter and finds the same clerk that was here when he brought Louis. She's looking at him with wide eyes and Harry has no idea why. When he gets closer and she eyes him up and down, Harry guesses she's doing it because of his ridiculously posh white tuxedo. For the first time in the Whipped, Harry feels like people may think he doesn't belong here.

\- Hi.

Harry smiles at the clerk but she doesn't smile back at him, eyes still wide.

\- I'd like to rent a bike, please.

She nods and then asks, somewhat embarrassed:

\- One? Or two?

\- Ahm, no... Just one. For me.

The clerk smiles, letting out a relieved sigh. Harry has no idea why.

\- Slot 32. The red one.

Harry picks up the keys she hands him, pays the required amount for 5 hours of bike rental and leaves the main room of the Whipped as soon as he can. He gets out of the chalet and heads for the smaller parking lot, where they keep their bike rack. It's almost weird not seeing Chuck's bike in the rack, considering that it's Harry's main form of transportation, but the rented bike will do. As soon as the padlock is unlocked and the bike is ready to go, Harry gets on it and starts pedalling to the Refuge.

The sun is shining between heavy clouds and it looks like it's going to rain later. Harry hopes it does. Maybe a monsoon can wash away Harry's soul, make it clean again. Harry would like that, getting purified, disinfected.

The way to the Refuge isn't particularly long, but it takes a while to get there and Harry goes slowly, singing in his head and keeping his pedalling rhythm unhurried, lazy. It feels like he's breathing right for the first time in the day.

_Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick_

_The one that makes me scream, she said_

_The one that makes me laugh, she said_

_And threw her arms around my neck_

Harry knows Louis will be waiting for him before he actually sees him. Even when they didn't plan anything for the day, even if Harry hasn't talked to Louis at all today, he can still feel it in his veins, with a certainty that he wouldn't be able to explain to anyone else but Louis himself. He's sure Louis feels it too. They are a sure thing for each other. The feeling calms Harry down, makes his heart beat slower. It's a good thing.

_Show me how you do it_

_And I promise you, I promise that_

_I'll run away with you_

_I'll run away with you_

There's this one particular tree, a huge pine tree with a slim but firm trunk, that is Harry's favorite to use as a made-up pole to lock his bike to, whether it's Chuck's bike or a rented one. That's the tree Louis is leaning against, arms crossed in front of his small chest, a charming smile on his face and mischief in his eyes. He's also alert, Harry notices. Louis is paying attention to every single thing that Harry's doing right now, Harry's expression and Harry's gestures. Louis isn't analyzing, he's too kind for that; he's just observing, looking for the best way to make Harry feel good. Louis usually does that, makes Harry feel good, just by existing, Harry already told him once, but Louis refuses to stop there. Harry can taste Louis' urge to ask Harry if he's ok. Harry can taste it inside his own mouth and it tastes like licking an especially sour lime. Louis isn't going to ask, at least not now. As Louis unfolds his arms and starts walking towards Harry, Harry can see that Louis is concerned, but that he will pretend not to be. Perfect.

\- You look like a very rich, very powerful and dangerous mob master. 

- Not very dangerous too?

\- Very dangerous!

Louis answers with wide eyes while nodding his head and Harry doesn't answer him, but Harry smiles - truly smiles; smiles and means it - for the first time in the day. It feels right.

- I feel like I should change.

Harry finishes securing the rented bike to the huge pine tree, makes sure it's safe and, after standing up, kisses Louis cheek once, still not answering him.

\- I'm in trackies and a tee for fuck's sake. Could've told me we were going fancy today.

Harry looks at Louis then and Harry's eyes are tired, he knows. They aren't impatient because Harry truly believes he will never be able to be impatient with Louis, never, but they are tired. Louis nods because he understands.

\- Ok, how was it, then? Shitty party?

\- Just... exactly what I expected, I guess.

\- Well, then I'm sorry. I'm sure everyone was just upset because you were the most handsome there. Billy is probably crying in the bathroom as we speak.

Harry grabs Louis' hand and starts walking towards the glare because Harry is sure that if he doesn't, Louis will be glad to spend the rest of their afternoon chatting right here, right next to the rented bike.

Probably not, though. Louis would probably start complaining that he's too far away from the "beautiful pinky thingy" in ten seconds. "I didn't come all the way here not to smell the beautiful pinky thingy, Harold", he would say. The "beautiful pinky thingy" are lilies, Louis never remembers their names.

- Billy doesn't give a shit about me. None of them do-

- I'm the one who doesn't give a shit about them, Harold. Those snob fuckers.

Louis kicks a small rock for emphasis. Harry likes it.

- Let's talk about something else, yeah?

Harry nods even when he doesn't really want to talk about anything at all.

They walk in silence, side by side, until they reach the glare. When they do, Louis suddenly starts running in front of Harry and sits on one of Harry's made up stools. Louis sits on it cross-legged, one ankle over and across the other, his knees far apart, because he's apparently unable to sit like a normal person. Harry loves it. Harry is looking at Louis' eyes while he completes the rest of the way to the stool at his own speed - a normal person speed, no absurd running - and realizes, by the evil smile dancing on Louis' lips that the only reason Louis ran is because Louis considers the stool he's currently sitting on, the best stool. He once called it softer, as if it made any sense. Harry knows Louis likes it because it's the closest stool to the lilies. Harry will let him have it. When Harry looks at Louis again, Louis' cheeks are the "beautiful pinky thingy".

Harry looks around just like he always does when he arrives at The Refuge. The breeze is soft and everything is comfier, calmer, even in the cloudy sky. It's going to rain and Harry wishes it does while they are still here, so they can close their eyes and let the water wash everything away, he knows Louis has his own demons too. Maybe they could let them all go together, all the bad stuff. The fact that they could do it at The Refuge only makes the whole thing more meaningful, more free, theirs. This is one of the last few places where Harry can still find any sort of comfort. Looking at Louis, Louis smiles at him like he understands, but he doesn't, Harry thinks. Not really. Harry loves him more than anything in the world, but Louis is this sunshine in human form, this precious, happy thing; he would never understand the emptiness Harry sometimes feels inside. The black hole that visits his mind. Harry's looking at Louis with furrowed eyebrows and at the same time that Harry says "I've been writing", Louis says "You're wrong, you know?". Louis doesn't wait a second before speaking again.

\- Sorry, go on. You've been writing.

\- Yeah.

Harry doesn't talk to anyone about his writing. No one even knows about it but Louis. Harry doesn't feel embarrassed like he used to. For a while now, it feels like Louis is just a part of him, the best part of him, like there's no reason to be embarrassed. Louis is Harry's safe place to collapse, Harry's safe place to just be himself. There's no feeling compared to being loved by being who you truly are, that's what Louis gives Harry. Freedom to exist. Harry wishes he could find a way to make Louis understand what this whole thing means to him. He wishes Louis knew.

\- I haven't been feeling too well lately.

Louis nods like he knows and Harry suspects he does.

- I thought it would be a good idea do put it on paper, yeah, in case-

Harry thinks: in case I can't do it later. He says:

\- In case I forget.

Louis nods again.

\- Let's hear it, then. How many do I have the pleasure of listening to today?

Harry smiles because Louis is his favorite, favorite thing in the universe, even when nothing else makes sense.

\- Two, if you're in the mood, obviously, you don't have to-

\- I'm always in the mood, Bambi.

\- Ok. There's one that's not exactly about you-

Louis gasps, pretending to be offended.

\- Not sure I'm in the mood, then.

Harry ignores him.

\- It's more, like, about me... and everything, you know? And another one where you make a more significant appearance. Which one do you want first?

- I'll take whatever you give me, curly.

\- Ok. This first one is called "Everywhere". I thought about Dr. Mills while writing it-

\- I always knew you had a crush on Dracula-

- But it's not happy. 

- I don't want happy. I want honest.

- It's honest, yeah. It's really honest.

\- Perfect. Wow me, Bambi.

Harry coughs, takes a deep breath and starts.

\- Where does it hurt? He asks and I know he expects me to say something stupid like everywhere like that is a cliché I would ever lower myself to. And it's not like hurt is even easily spotted, some days it's just there and sometimes those days feel longer than years. I wonder if I should tell him that it's been weeks since I had a good laugh or if I should go straight into my childhood and tell him that I exhausted the love out of my dad and that my mother's attention wasn't earned without begging or merit and that I am still too proud and mediocre to ever reach that place worthy of love and so for the longest time I expected someone to come and save me and I think he did.

Harry stops reciting his poem and looks up at Louis, eyes kind and sincere.

\- I think you did.

\- Go on, Curly.

\- What? Does it make you upset?

- Don't you wanna finish your poetry?

- Not if it's going to upset you, no, not really.

- I'm not upset, Curly-

\- Please don't lie to me, Lou, not today-

\- It's just... I didn't save you, yeah?

\- Yes, you did because-

\- It's not me, it's you! It's you, Harry. It's not me. And it's not even like it's over... Do you understand?

Harry nods, because he does. He does understand. Louis is using some euphemisms there, but it's really not over. It's not a battle Harry has won. There's nothing to celebrate. It's not like Harry's saved.

\- You are going to have to save yourself.

\- Yeah.

\- I love you and I'll be there. I'll hold your hand through everything, Bambi, everything. But it's all you, yeah? This one is all you.

Harry nods again and he wants to cry, but he won't. Not yet. Leave it to Louis to be rational in times like this, when Harry can barely think straight.

\- Wanna go on with your poetry, Curly, please?

\- Yeah, yeah, sorry.

Harry coughs again - a nervous habit he's only now recognizing; one more for the list - and continues reciting his poem.

- So for the longest time I expected someone to come and save me and it made so naive, but as I carry the past with me like a well-deserving punishment, I still get so ashamed, I suffocate on memory petals knowing there's more flowers in my lungs now than it will ever be on my grave and I still don't regret any of it. am I supposed to say that I am bothered by my age and by the fact that nothing worthy has come out of all my years and that by now is too late to die young and my death would't be such a big deal and, sure, what is the point on dying if there's not going to be drama but what's the point of living if it's going to feel this empty? And I am not even saying this for show, I truly expected more, at least more emotion, I truly believed I deserved it and that's just me being naive again but even my favorite breakfast now tastes rotten and no one really cares as long as you are functional and I wished I felt anger but I'm too tired and I'm not even violent, I'm not violent, I'm just condemned to exist. I know that's not a great thought to have but who even cares when even music doesn't make me feel anything and it's not that I'm numb, I'm just empty. Should I tell him that I don't wanna open my windows anymore? Maybe I should confess that I haven't dreamed for months about anything else but his eyes - your eyes, Lou - and this awful experience is giving me a migraine that I don't deserve and my head hurts so fucking much, so fucking much, and that I am just existing through life as if the embarrassment that radiates from my father's eyes when he introduces me on dinner parties is forever on my shoulders? I feel like a worse version of myself and I feel like such a waste but I haven't got anything else to give. My thoughts are always a crude and vulgar mess and they aren't even mine sometimes; they are just greasy whispers that don't belong to me and when he's not here - when you're not here, Lou - I get so alone I can taste the iron in my blood and that doesn't even matter, does it?

Harry takes a deep breath.

\- Everywhere, I say, it hurts everywhere.

When Harry looks up at Louis again, Louis isn't saying anything. He's just looking at Harry attentively, with a kind smile on his lips, eyes worried. Louis looks at Harry like he wants to take care of him and Harry can feel Louis' love inside his own heart. It makes him feel warm inside.

Louis nods once before speaking.

\- That was honest, yeah.

Harry is aware that he's looking at Louis like only Louis' opinion matters, as if Louis' thoughts are the only ones that mean anything. It's the truth, anyway. They both know it.

\- And it's powerful. Really powerful.

When Louis speaks again, his voice is lower, almost ashamed.

\- I wish I could love the sadness out of you.

Harry's almost crying and the headache is here, but Louis' voice soothes it.

\- You do, I promise, Lou. You do it all the time. 

Louis shakes his head slowly.

\- Yeah, but... Yeah.

They stare at each other for a while, in silence, doing nothing but existing together; sharing their souls. Admiring the intensity of Louis' cerulean eyes, Harry suddenly thinks of Carl Sagan; thinks of "For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love"; thinks of "In the vastness of space and the immensity of time, it is my joy to share a planet and an epoch with" Louis. Harry thinks "We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful" and the thought makes him want to cry, as if the weight of the universe is on his back, and Louis apparently senses Harry's distress because he's almost standing up from his stool when Harry shakes his head at him. He's not supposed to stand up. Not yet. There's a lot Harry needs to say, thoughts that are consuming him from the inside that he needs to put out there before he can surrender to Louis' arms.

\- Are you ok, love?

Louis is concerned and Harry's voice is nothing but a whimper when he breathes:

- Louis...

- Baby...

Now, Louis stands up and Harry has to stop him. Vocally stop him.

\- I still have another poem left, please.

Harry is so tired he can feel his voice shaking.

Louis seems to be studying the situation, his eyebrows furrowed as if trying to convince himself that Harry can go a little longer without his care, without his touch. Before sitting back on his stool - the best stool - Louis says:

- Ok. Just another one, then. And after it's finished, we're gonna lay down for a bit, yeah? I'm pretty tired too.

\- Lou, I don't need to lay down, I'm just-

\- Harry, please let me take care of you. Please. It's ok if you're not ok, but just let me, yeah? Please.

Harry nods as he starts to feel the wetness on the corner of his eyes, small tears beginning to blur his vision. Everything's smudged but Louis' face, he looks like an angel surrounded by a green cloud. Harry's tears fall, the first one does, right into Harry's cheek, and Louis pretends he doesn't see them; only spends a second looking for a sign that Harry needs him to interfere. When Louis doesn't find one, he stays put. Harry's heart aches with how well Louis knows him.

It's time for another poem now and Harry realizes, before beginning to recite it, that it still isn't going to be enough; not enough compared to the immensity of what Harry feels for Louis. A drop in the ocean. Harry will never run out of words for Louis and he's not sure if anyone has ever felt the same about Harry; felt like there's always another advice to be told, another joke, another loving word. Harry suspects no one did. A part of Harry's mind, the good part, tries to remind him that Chuck didn't run out of words to say to Harry, just run out of time. Harry doesn't want to run out of neither with Louis.

\- I was told I was going to receive a spectacular performance.

Harry gives Louis a wet smile.

\- This one is called "Things that will never change".

Harry takes a deep breath and tries not to cough.

\- My diagnosis came when I was 14 and it was all I could think about. The pills used to scratch my throat, like swallowing broken glass, and your kisses healed me from the inside. My parents don't trust me enough to send me to college and I don't think I wanna go anywhere without you. I used to hate loud noises until I met you and your screams and your shouts vibrate in the same frequency of my blood flow. I thought I was going insane before but it was a false alarm. There's always going to be relapses and your laugh could cure cancer. I wish you had met Chuck. The sky's blue is graceless compared to yours and I have never wanted anyone as much as I want you. I'm completely lost but you're my north star. You hate sweetened tea, you've got three freckles on your left cheek, my Bermuda Triangle, your lips taste like strawberries and I'm sick but I love you. My diagnosis came when I was 14 and it was all I could think about but not anymore. I don't think about it as much, not since I've met you.

Harry swallows.

\- Yeah, that's it.

Louis starts clapping. Harry loves him.

- You're magnificent, Curly, magnificent. Your poetry could change the world.

Harry smiles and he still has tears on his eyes but Louis is always, always the best.

Louis stands up then, slowly, and starts making his way towards Harry. When Louis reaches him, Louis extends both his hands; Harry grabs them.

\- You know, all geniuses are a bit crazy-

Harry's loud laugh is an explosion in the middle of the quiet woods because that's the absolute last thing he expected Louis to say.

- I mean it! Take Van Gogh, for example.

\- Oh, we're doing a mental examination on Van Gogh today, then?

\- No, no. I'm just saying it for a comparison... Both of your arts are revolutionary.

\- Revolutionary. Really?

It takes longer than it should for Harry to realize that Louis has been pulling him to Harry's favorite spot to lie down, among the petals from the beautiful pinky thingy. It's ok. Harry agreed to it. He will let Louis do his thing.

\- Revolutionary!

Louis says as he stops pulling Harry for a bit and then proceeds to get on his tiptoes to run a finger through Harry's right ear.

\- And you both have tiny ears-

\- Van Gogh didn't have a tiny ear, Louis, he cut his off!

Harry thinks better of his answer.

\- I do not have a tiny ear, Louis!

Louis laughs as he says: "What? It's cute!".

When he begins pulling Harry again, he's looking all around. Harry loves how Louis still gets this look on his face whenever Harry brings him here; like he's impressed and thankful at the same time. There's nothing in the universe Harry wouldn't do for him.

\- I wish we could visit The Refuge at night.

Harry thinks it's an even better idea than visiting it while it's raining.

As they reach their little "flower-bed", Louis words, Louis starts laying down, pulling Harry with him. Harry goes easily, always easy for Louis.

\- I bet it's so, so beautiful.

Harry lays his head on Louis' chest.

\- "I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day". Do you know who said that?

\- Well, let me see... Van Gogh?

\- Yay, Harold! Exactly! Van tiny-eared Gogh, the special guest for our chit-chat today.

\- What's with you and Van Gogh now?

- He wasn't understood by his peers, you know?

\- I can't believe I'm lucky enough to have an Arts Class in the middle of the woods.

- Harry! Would you pay attention?

Harry's still tired, exhausted really, but it's always so easy to play with Louis like this. Always so comforting, natural to the both of them. It feels like they've been doing this since the beginning of time.

Louis' fingers are running through Harry's hair gently, softly, and Harry's already surrounded by that familiar sleepy haze that here, in The Refuge, smells like fresh grass and vanilla. Harry wonders why the haze only visits him when he feels safe, when he's with Louis.

- Sorry. Sorry, Mr. Tomlinson.

- That's better.

\- So, Van Gogh was alone.

\- Yeah, alone and misunderstood...

\- Are we still playing the comparison game?

\- If I want to, yes, we are.

\- Oh, sorry, Mr. Teacher.

\- It's Mr. Highness to you.

Harry laughs a sleepy laugh.

\- Van Gogh wasn't as alone as he thought.

- Wasn't he?

\- All I want you to know is that it's ok to live a life others don't understand, Harry.

Louis is serious, which means this is important.

Harry lets the thought lull him to sleep as his last coherent thought.

It's ok to live a life others don't understand.

Harry falls asleep without realizing. When the sleepy haze eventually surrounds him, it's gentle and sweet, just like the boy whose chest Harry's using as a pillow.

❥

When Harry wakes up, he doesn't feel so comfortable anymore. The grass smell is wrong, too acidic, almost hurting his nose, and their little flower-bed doesn't feel as safe as it usually does. Harry feels off in his own skin, dirty and greasy. Something is wrong, he already knows. He turns on his side and something inside of him calms down, even if just for a second, when he spots Louis' back, the perfect curve of it, soft and beautiful. Harry knows that curve better than he knows himself. Louis has his back to Harry and is admiring the vast view, sitting really close to the cliff. Harry takes in his messy hair, the prettiest tone of cinnamon, caramel at the ends, and the way he sits with both his hands behind his back. He's so small in the middle of this whole scene, surrounded by the bluest sky and the greenest trees, flowers all around him.

_ You should push him. _

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten, trying to get his breathing under control. When he opens his eyes again, he turns to look at the sky, hoping that this will make the whispers go away, disappearing and drowning into the corrosive ocean of thoughts that Harry carries around inside his rotten brain. He almost believes that it's going to get better when:

_ Or you should jump instead of him. _

Harry stands up quickly, too quickly, making his vision go dark, shakes his head hard and starts walking towards Louis.

_ You're gonna trip on that branch.  _

Some days aren't this bad. On days when this whole... thing, this whole disgusting noise isn't so strong, Harry can usually handle it in a sufficiently good manner. On most days, Harry can pull off sane with reasonable success; which means that no one would call him normal, but no one would call him crazy and that's already a victory for him. Harry is starting to worry that today isn't one of those "moderately hard" days. Today feels wrong. He should go home. It would be the right thing to do, he knows, but he doesn't want to leave The Refuge, doesn't want to leave Louis. Taking his meds as prescribed would also be the right thing to do, but he's not doing that either, so why start acting correctly now? Maybe if he tries a little harder, maybe he can handle them, the whisper that plays in the back of his mind like a broken record. Harry feels like there are drops of poison, thick as honey, dripping from his brain, getting the nape of his neck dirty and sticky; feels like he's greasy everywhere.

He's closer to Louis when he hears it again.

_ Just a little push. _

\- Shut up!

Louis immediately turns around, eyes the size of the galaxy.

\- Harry?

Louis is worried, concern and apprehension swimming in his dark blue eyes and he's scared, as much as he's trying to pretend that he isn't, and Harry never wants to see him like this again. Harry wants to set himself on fire for ever bringing this expression to Louis' face, Harry doesn't deserve him.

Harry thinks "Not today, please" as strongly as he possibly can, screams it to the back of his mind, as if that would make a difference, as if it ever did, hoping his scream will reach that dark place in his brain that he can't touch, the black hole where the whisper rests; Harry's mind hatch. His trapdoor. "Please, don't do this", he screams silently.

\- Bambi.

Louis is touching his shoulder. Harry has no idea how Louis managed to stand up so fast and reach Harry in less than one second, but Harry refuses to open his eyes.

\- Bambi, are you hearing things again?

Harry feels too embarrassed to answer.

\- Is it the whisper? Is it here now?

Harry never once called it "the whisper" to Louis. Harry only uses this word when he's alone, panicked by himself or trying to rationalize how to kill the ruined part of his brain. It's the fact that Louis knows, without Harry ever having said it to him before, that makes Harry start crying. Sobbing. It also makes Harry confirm Louis' suspicions by nodding wordlessly. Harry can feel the humiliation turning his cheeks pink. He can feel the whisper swimming in his bloodstream, corrupting pure blood with its greasy voice. Harry feels dirty, like he doesn't belong in his own skin, like he doesn't deserve his body, his life.

The air moves and Louis is suddenly holding both of Harry's hands. Harry tries to focus on nothing else but the way Louis' tiny hands feel against his skin, fragile and soft. Harry imagines himself being able to feel Louis' fingerprints against his body, being able to feel their molecules crushing together. A beautiful explosion that would make Harry deaf and he will never listen to any whisper again. It's a beautiful scenery in Harry's mind, deafness, incapable of hearing anything but Louis' voice. That's what Harry try to focus on. A different life, a better one.

\- Harry?

It's the only sound ever worth listening to.

\- Harry, love, I'm gonna need you to listen to me, yeah? Can you do that for me, sweetheart?

_ He's about to lie.  _

Harry concentrates on nodding. He repeats to himself that in the middle of this grease ocean that is his mind, Louis' voice is a life vest. He's not sure if he does, though, probably doesn't, too paralyzed by fear, because Louis is calling his name again. Worry dripping from his sweet, sweet voice.

\- Harry.

There's a hint of desperation in Louis' voice, as if he too could sense the way reality is slipping from Harry, sliding around him, and wanted to pull Harry back, bring Harry back. Harry's rope. Harry's life vest.

\- Harry, please listen to me.

_ He isn't real.  _

\- Lou.

Harry is still sobbing, he knows he is, but he can't contain his hopelessness.

_ He isn't real, he isn't really here. I'm the only real thing here and you know it. _

Louis' galaxy eyes are full of anguish while he looks at Harry and Louis looks like he's the one in pain. It's their connection. They are in sync. Louis is squeezing Harry's hand hard, way too hard, as if he believes that he can bring Harry back to reality only by the strength of his fingers. Harry hopes Louis leaves bruises on his skin. Harry hopes Louis can bring him back to wherever they truly are, but it's too hard to breathe and it's hard to trust Louis' ability and it's not fair to think of Louis as a rope made out of love that will bring Harry back to safety and sometimes sanity is nothing but a cozy lie.

\- Tell me you're real.

Harry tries to breathe deeply, slowly, just like Louis taught him to, but it's impossible like this, when Harry's drowning in grease and nothing makes sense anymore. Harry forces Louis's fingers against his skin and Louis immediately understands what Harry wants - "needs, Lou" - and presses his fingers even harder. There will be bruises. Harry is sure Louis will kiss every single one of them. Dizzy and terrified, Harry tries to focus on the pressure Louis' fingers create, their weight against Harry's hands.

\- I'm real!

Louis' scream is so loud that, for a second, it's enough to bring Harry back. For a second. Louis sounds desperate and his eyes are going glassy with unshed tears and Harry feels the desperate need to apologize to him, to apologize to everything.

- I'm real, Harry, and I'm here and you're here with me!

_ You should hurt him. He's telling you lies.  _

Harry shakes his head so hard it hurts.

\- I won't, never, never, never-

\- Harry, stop!

Harry tries to focus on Louis' scared eyes.

- I'm real, Harry, I promise.

- But you're in my head all the time.

\- You're in my head all the time too, yeah? That doesn't make you any less real, does it?

Harry isn't coherent enough, isn't conscious enough to answer him; Harry has no idea how to answer Louis' question.

\- Now you gotta focus on me, sweetheart, I know you can. Focus on me and let everything else go.

_ He is still lying.  _

\- Let them go, for me.

Louis is pleading now and Harry knows how worried Louis gets when Harry is like this, Harry wishes he could make it stop. Louis is shaking, Harry can feel against his skin, but Louis stays, always stays, because he knows Harry needs him.

\- I'm real, Haz. This is real, ok?

Harry nods, taking deep heaving breaths and trying to list all the things that he can feel by himself, without having to trust anyone else. He tries to find all the things that give this place credibility, tries to find clues that will lead him to reality. Harry focuses on the warmth of the sunlight against his skin, focus on the vanilla scent coming out of Louis' hair; his safe smell, Harry loves him more-

_ He doesn't love you Harry, he doesn't even have a heart.  _

Harry sobs harder with the thought, fat tears running down his cheeks like acid corroding his heart.

\- You do love me, don't you?

Harry's eyes are closed when he asks not only because he doesn't want to see Louis lying to him, if he does lie, that is, but also due to shame. The humiliation of having to ask. Harry hates himself for it, hates that he makes Louis go through it. He feels small and embarrassed. He would rather set himself on fire than asking Louis to prove his love to Harry, but he doesn't have a choice. Harry's mind is not only underwater, Harry's already choking.

\- Harry.

Louis' voice is soft, different from the desperation from before, but still sad. It wraps Harry up in some sort of love he almost forgot existed. It's a breath of fresh air.

\- Look at me.

_ Don't do it.  _

- Please.

Harry does, tears clouding his vision, but Louis looks as pretty as he always does. Perfect. Harry's. Here.

\- I love you more than anything in the entire world.

Louis speaks slowly, says it quietly, so Harry has to quiet down his mind to be able to listen to it. Louis knows how Harry works, knows Harry better than anyone. Louis' voice is velvety and the poison inside of Harry's brain stops dripping.

\- I wanna spend the rest of my life with you.

Harry's tears are wetting his golden tie like the rain that hasn't started yet was supposed to. Harry washes himself in his own sadness, makes do with his tears, gets himself clean.

\- That's what is real.

Harry nods, still crying, and the poisoned voice is still there, but it's quiet enough, embarrassed against Louis' certainty, that Harry can breathe, can think for a moment. He's wearing his life vest made out of love, still floating on his dirty ocean.

\- I'm gonna take you home soon, ok? It'll be ok.

Louis says quietly, stroking his fingers across Harry's pink cheeks, brushing away Harry's silent tears. He tugs on Harry's hair as if it's simultaneously a caress and a reminder for Harry to stay here with him. Harry doesn't want to go anywhere.

\- I don't wanna go.

Louis smiles sadly.

- I wanna stay here with you.

Louis shakes his head, smiling at Harry, calmer now, and presses his lips to Harry's, a single kiss that tastes like sanity.

- I'm always with you, Bambi.

Louis laces their fingers together and he's ready to start walking when Harry interrupts him.

\- Lou...

- Yeah, love?

\- What if it gets bad again?

Harry can feel his fingers trembling against Louis' and the old fear is back, the one that always appears after an intense episode. Harry feels like he's nothing but a victim of his mind, waiting for the next attack; an easy prey with nowhere to run. On moments like this, Harry feels afraid to live inside his own brain. Looking up at Louis, Harry finds only sadness, not a trace of pity. Harry loves him for it.

\- What do I do, then?

\- Let them all go, Bambi. Let it all go and let the universe fill you instead.

Harry nods like it makes sense.

- And remember the sound of my voice, yeah?

It sounds like an old advice, given by someone much wiser than the two of them, "let it all go and let the universe fill you instead". Louis announces it with some sort of respect, as if someone else has told him the same thing before. Harry decides to trust him blindly, like he always does.

Before forcing Harry to sit down on the grass, Louis kisses him once more. Then, he places Harry exactly on Harry's favorite spot to admire the city; extremely close to where Louis was sitting when Harry woke up; before the whole mess.

Louis keeps breathing in a rhythm that's not natural for him, with his small lungs and passionate heart, and Harry knows that's Louis trying to wordlessly convince Harry to breathe in that same way; slow and deep. Louis wants to calm him down, Harry knows what Louis is doing. Harry will have to thank him later (and not only for the breathing, not only for the life vest; just for being real, for finding Harry in this Cosmos, for staying here with him, for taking such good care of him). Harry will have to thank Louis later.

Louis waits until he judges that Harry is well enough to be taken home. Harry knows that Louis is still worried by the way he keeps looking at Harry from the corner of his eye when he thinks that Harry won't notice.

It's only when they reach the huge pine tree where the rented bike rests, untouched, that Harry can taste the grease in his mouth again.

_ He's stuck in your head.  _

"I know".

_ You gotta get him out.  _

"I will".

❥

It's cold inside the elevator, everything in distant shades of white and gold, and Harry is pretty sure he's shaking, but he can't take his eyes off of his reflection in the mirror. He can barely recognize himself; he looks too messy; puffy eyes; swollen face; mouth bitten-red. Anyone can see that he's been crying and that's a real problem that Harry can't seem to be capable of worrying about right now. Harry feels like he's still in a dream, still sleeping a restless sleep. Underwater; slower. The heavy tiredness that weights in his bone with a strength more powerful than gravity is the only real thing he can feel right now. The quick nap he took as soon as he got home, passed out in his bed as if he were dead, meant nothing for his body nor his mind. When he woke up at exactly 8:00 pm, dinner time, he was glad for his unconscious punctuality - the last thing he wanted was for one of his parents to pay him a bedroom visit or, even worse, Emily - but he felt like a tired zombie; a half-living creature way past his death time.

The elevator's little shake as it reaches the first floor is the only thing that reminds Harry that he has to get off of it. He's embarrassed to think about the amount of time it would have taken for him to realize that the doors were open, just like it happened this morning. Stepping out of the elevator, Harry moves by inertia: he heads to his usual place at the dinner table, looks at the huge family painting - because he always does, it's a habit, he's a routine boy, following the same patterns - and notices, without the attention that the realization would most likely require that the faces are nothing but little blurs. Maybe everything in life is a blur. Maybe Harry's just blind. Maybe Harry sees more than he should. Looking around the dinner table, Harry realizes that he's the only one here, the dinner table completely empty; maybe life's empty too.

Harry drops all of his weight in his usual seat, too tired to sit in a politer way, and lowers his head to the floor. He closes his eyes for exactly 30 seconds, he counts it in his head, hears nothing but the numbers going down, the time running out. When he lifts his head, taking his eyes off of the floor, Virginia and Richard Styles are already sitting by the dinner table, each one in their respective usual seat. Harry didn't hear a thing. The two are discussing something funny, judging by Richard's smile. Just as Harry notices the smile, Richard turns his head in Harry's direction and as soon as his eyes meet a looking-back-at-him Harry, he stops smiling.

\- I need to talk to you. - Richard announces in a serious tone.

\- Richard... - Virginia starts, but gets interrupted.

\- No. That's enough, Virginia. Today was the last drop. - Richard says.

Harry wonders what is the most appropriate reaction for him to have right now, searches all around the sane part of his brain, but comes up empty-handed. Without a better choice, Harry chooses to stare at the napkin ring his mother bought, custom-made for their family. The ring is golden and has a fancy cursive "S" engraved on it. Harry tries to occupy his mind with words that start with S, a game Louis would have come up with if he was here. Harry thinks of Sanity; thinks of Safe; thinks of Sabotage; he doesn't think about that one last S word even if it visits his mind once in a while.

\- Your mom thinks you're too sensible to hear certain things, but I don't agree with her. I think you're well enough.

Silently, Harry questions what it means to be well enough, wonders how close it is to being sane enough.

Richard continues:

\- You are taking your medication, you're living your life with your therapy and your music lessons and your personal trainer... You're taken care of, Harry. Very well taken care of, in my opinion. So, forgive me if I believe that you can handle a little reprimand, a scold to remind you of how you're supposed to behave.

"Oh, that's what it means to be well enough", Harry thinks but doesn't speak out loud; would never take the risk of stressing Richard even further.

As a last resort before the whole thing starts - because it hasn't started, not really - Harry considers using all his creativity, all his distance to reality to picture Louis right in front of him, sitting on the opposite chair across the table. He knows he could do it, if he really wanted to, but he wouldn't make Louis listen to this, even if it's only in his head.

\- To begin with, I introduced you to a very nice young lady today.

Harry isn't sure if he actually heard it or only hoped he did, but he's pretty sure Virginia let out a small irritated sigh, low enough that Richard wouldn't hear but loud enough to make Harry question if she really did it. Harry hopes she did. It's too little compared to what Harry imagines that an Australian version of Virginia would do, but that's probably only because Harry expects too much of her; flipping the whole dinner table and abandoning the conversation all together. It's not fair to compare the real Virginia to the one that only exists in Harry's head. The little irritated sigh is enough (it really isn't, but Harry can pretend it is; it has to be enough after all, it's all Harry's got).

\- Megan was devastated because apparently you left her alone at your own sister's engagement party. Megan was looking for you everywhere.

Harry didn't think it was possible, but Richard's tone assumes an even more offended note when he speaks next:

\- She thought you had stolen her phone.

Harry only shakes his head, eyes still focused on the napkin ring.

\- Apparently, you left it with Teddy before sneaking out from your own sister's wedding party.

There's a vein on Richard's forehead that always pops out when he's this stressed, this exalted. Harry is afraid to look up and see it staring right back at him and he knows that if he does look up, Richard will probably start speaking even louder and that's the last thing that Harry wants. Especially because Harry knows that this, this whole "reprimand", is Richard trying to control himself; he's not screaming; he's not gesticulating as much as he could be. Apparently, Harry is well (sane) enough for a scold, but fragile enough for real screaming.

Maybe Richard simply doesn't want to hurt Virginia's feelings by screaming to their sick son for leaving a party earlier than he was supposed to. Maybe this is it. That's a way more comprehensive explanation than believing that Richard is concerned about Harry's fragility at all.

As a second thought, Harry realizes that maybe Richard merely doesn't want Emily to hear his shouts at Harry. Harry's pretty sure his father once told him that no man can really be a good employer - man, not woman; Richard's words - if he acts emotionally unstable in front of their employees. "They lose all respect for you, Harry". Yes, that's probably it. Thank God for Emily, then.

\- So I'm going to ask you something, Harry, and I need you to be honest with me. Can you nod your head so I know you're listening?

Harry nods his head.

\- Are you in need of anything?

Harry shakes his head.

\- Are you facing any sort of struggles?

Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head again.

\- Is there anything you wanna share with us?

Harry squeezes his fingers against each other until they turn white at their tips and shakes his head for the third time.

\- Aren't we good enough parents for you?

\- Richard. That's enough. - Virginia speaks only once, a low voice, but a fierceness in her tone that makes Richard stop immediately.

Richard seems to have accepted Virginia's intrusion because he doesn't ask Harry anything else. Still, Harry whispers:

\- Sorry for today. It won't happen again.

Harry barely interacts with Richard after that.

Over dinner, Harry empties his mind, thinks of nothing but his headache, feeling it ache from the root of his hair to the center of his brain, and the whole meal is a blur. He tries to let the universe fill him instead, but he isn't quite there yet; hasn't reached Louis' level of wisdom. The migraine has to fill in for the universe of that one.

Virginia asks him more than three times if everything's alright, which means Harry really isn't pulling off sane today. The last time she asks, Harry answers that he's just tired and she smiles at him sadly and tells him "Go to bed earlier, then, darling". Harry wishes he could sleep a restful sleep; dream only Louis' dreams, surrounded by the sleepy haze of vanilla and fresh grass smell. Harry wishes he felt safe enough to surrender himself to unconsciousness.

Emily, in her loose blonde braid, doesn't address Harry once and that's how he knows that he needs to improve his "everything's fine" act. She seems to notice better than Harry's own parents how away he is, lost inside his mind, and that's a slightly disturbing truth to notice. She doesn't flirt with him, doesn't make any of her usual funny comments. Rationally, Harry's sure that Emily doesn't really know anything about his mental condition, even if she does suspect that something is not right. Richard would never let this information leak to anyone else but Rosa - and even Rosa only knows about it because she's the one responsible for Harry's medication and because someone needs to baby-sit Harry while his parents are away; poor helpless child. Carl was right after all, Harry is still as inadequate and as lost as he was a decade ago, if not worse. Another reason Emily wouldn't ever know about it from Richard is because he truly believes she's a potential candidate for Harry's love life and Richard understands, especially as a psychiatrist, how unsexy mental illness really is. Maybe Emily would give up trying to seduce Harry if she saw the way he begged Louis to tell him that he loved him this afternoon. Maybe Emily would give up trying to seduce Harry if she saw the way Harry looks at Louis, the way Louis looks back at him. The last reason for Emily not to know about Harry's extra voices is shame, simple as that. Richard is embarrassed by Harry's condition and there's nothing new about that. Harry's sure that if this was the Middle Age, Harry would end up in the highest tower of a white and golden castle, forever locked in a room that no one visits. Harry's mind would be its own dragon, keeping him alone. In other words, Harry is aware of all the ways he has stained Richard's bloodline of perfectly strong, financially successful and mentally stable men. Harry swears he hasn't chosen to be the way he is and he's not sure how to apologize any more than he already has.

If Richard looks away from Harry's face five times during dinner, it's five times too many. His eyes don't leave Harry's face once and by Richard's expression, he's getting increasingly irritated, trying to find an answer that justifies Harry's recent behavior and, when finding none, getting more and more frustrated.

Harry is about to leave the table after excusing himself when Richard's voice comes up again:

\- Do you have a headache?

- No.

Harry lies immediately and Richard's eyes narrow.

\- Not even a bit?

\- No.

\- Are you sure?

\- Yes.

\- Migraine?

\- No. Think I would know if I did.

\- Hm.

It's the worst dinner they had in a long time.

When Harry eventually leaves the table, he's not happy, but he's relieved. He just wants to go back to his room and lie down again until everything starts making sense.

❥

_Do you still feel younger than you thought you would by now?_

_Or, darling, have you started feeling old yet?_

_Don't worry, I'm sure that you're still breaking hearts_

_With the efficiency that only youth can harness_

Harry has his eyes closed, humming the song in his mind. His windows are all wide open and as the wind ruffles his hair, it tells him that the promised rain is coming. Soon. The bedroom lights are off and the light coming from the streets is a dark shade of grey due to the heavy clouds. Harry feels as if he's inside a lightning bolt. Both of Harry's hands are behind his head, squished between Harry's hair and his fluffy pillow, and his pose looks relaxed even when he truly, truly isn't. Cat is snoring by his feet, a source of heat in his chilly bedroom, and Harry does nothing but exist, humming the song and filling his mind with beautiful words instead of poisoned ones.

_And do you still think love is a Laserquest_

_Or do you take it all more seriously_

_I've tried to ask you this in some daydreams that I've had_

_But you're always busy being make-believe_

The familiar loneliness that suffocates Harry's heart feels more bitter on nights like this, on these grey nights when Harry misses Louis more than usual. It seems to be more emptiness in his chest, as if he's more lonely, more alone, than he really is. It doesn't matter that he already saw Louis today; on these grey nights, the sadder ones, when everything feels emptier, he craves Louis' legs intertwined with his, craves nothing but Louis in the most simple of ways. It's innocent and pure, still a burning necessity.

When the window glass shakes, in a way that it only does when someone leans their whole weight against it, Harry almost doesn't startle. His eyebrows must be furrowed, though, because Louis feels the need to say "I told you I was coming" while he places one leg inside Harry's bedroom and no, he didn't tell Harry he was coming, but Harry isn't going to complain.

Louis' attention is firstly directed at Cat, who hasn't stopped snoring in the last forty minutes, and isn't nearly as excited as Harry to see Louis here. Harry finds it a bit absurd.

\- How can I communicate to Kitty that I am his ally?

Harry pulls his duvet away from Cat - and away from Louis too, oops - as a symbolic gesture, only to ensure that Louis knows how absurd it is that Cat comes first in his list of "who to greet when entering Harry's bedroom in the middle of the night".

- Oh, that's what you came here to do, then.

\- Kitty wants me to be here. I'm never passive aggressive, unlike some other people.

Harry rolls his eyes and, even if it's too dark, he hopes Louis sees it.

\- I feel you, Kitty. It must be hard for you.

Harry grunts.

\- I feel you.

Louis says as he begins to literally feel Cat, running his small, delicate hands to Cat's soft fur.

Cat doesn't move nor does he wake up.

\- You are soft. Like a bunny.

Harry snorts loudly and apparently that is the correct noise to make in order for Louis to give Harry some attention. Go figure. Louis stops petting Cat after sending him a small kiss and comes crawling up the bed. He lays down next to Harry and hugs Harry tight from behind, placing his arm around Harry's waist. Harry's hair must be all over Louis' face but Louis doesn't seem to mind, seems to be purposefully breathing in Harry's shampoo and Harry blushes and thanks the grey darkness for keeping his pink cheeks a secret.

\- You smell like tangerines.

- Hm.

- You smell amazing.

They are spooning. Harry's the little spoon. The safety haze is back.

- Do you think making love will make you feel better? Cause I can get into that.

When Louis is acting this silly, when he can't stop making goofy jokes, it means that he's nervous. Ok, so Louis is still a bit nervous and worried. It's ok. Harry would be too if their roles were reversed.

\- Do you think we could just... watch the stars for a while?

\- Too cloudy for that, I'm afraid, Curly.

\- Lou...

\- Ok, sorry. There's nothing I'd rather do, H.

Louis holds him tighter, nose buried deep into Harry's curls.

\- I told the stars about you, you know?

\- Oh, what an honor.

Harry nods, rubbing Louis' cheeks and Louis' nose with his hair.

\- What did they say?

Harry decides to change the subject, otherwise Louis will let them bullshit their way throughout the night with his small games and chit-chats and Harry's mood isn't good enough for that, not yet. Harry's afraid Louis will get frustrated, even if Louis swears he won't, even if Louis understands him. Harry can't pretend not to be sad or worried and he never wants to pretend to be anything with Louis. It's the principle of the thing; always being honest with each other; always letting each other be.

\- My heart has started beating differently since I met you.

It's what Harry ends up saying when he can't find a better way to put into words the way that he sometimes can't see himself when he's with Louis, the way he can only just see Louis and nothing else.

Louis takes a deep breath and exhales against Harry's neck, warm and wet. Harry shivers.

\- Harry, are you ok?

- When I did, it felt like I got kissed by an angel.

Louis' hand tightens against Harry's waist.

- So sweet, so sweet, Lou.

- Love, I'm here, yeah?

Harry knows he's not making any sense, but there's too much headache and he's cold sweating against his sheets and there's so much pain and he feels feverish. He's probably just getting as sick on the outside as he is on his inside. He hopes Louis doesn't leave, he wouldn't know what to do with himself if Louis did.

- I know I'm very hard to talk to. I realize that.

- No, love, no.

Louis swallows loudly.

\- That's not it. That's not it at all.

Harry shakes his head and Louis continues.

\- You're perfect. Perfect, love. You're art. You're this mess of gorgeous chaos. I can see it in your eyes whenever I look at you and it's perfect, yeah? I don't expect anything from you, ever, you don't owe me anything, but you just keep surprising me with your beauty and yeah, there's your confusion, sure, but with your kindness.

Louis kisses the nape of Harry's neck.

\- You're so, so good, Curly.

Harry can feel his eyes filling up with these painful tears but he doesn't try to hold them back this time. Today was one of the scariest days of his life, terrible and hopeless, making him fear not ever getting better. And if he doesn't get better, he will never be good enough for Louis. That's a fact. There's nothing Harry would like more than to not be crying right now, not needing to be held. He wishes he was holding Louis instead, comforting him; or, even better, he wishes he was getting out of bed, dancing with Louis in the dark with nothing but lightning outlining their bodies. Harry wishes he was making Louis laugh. Harry can't, though, not with his weight in his chest holding him down and if Louis leaves-

- I'm afraid you'll get tired of loving me.

Louis doesn't say anything. Instead, he starts moving them around to a familiar position; Harry's head against Louis' chest. Best pillow Harry has ever had, it smells like home.

- I know you know about the origin of the universe.

Harry nods into Louis' chest, rubbing his nose against the soft cotton of Louis' shirt.

\- So I'll skip the basic stuff.

Harry murmurs a quiet "Yeah" and intertwines his legs with Louis'.

\- My atoms have always loved your atoms.

Harry closes his eyes.

\- Since the beginning of time, since the beginning of everything. I was made for you. You were made for me.

Harry's embarrassed about the state of Louis' shirt underneath Harry's face, getting damp with Harry's tears since his silent crying doesn't seem to be stopping any time soon. It feels like he's overflowing with love and sadness at the same time; the coldest fire; burning ice.

\- You don't understand, Lou.

\- That's not true and you know it.

Louis says it with an unshakable confidence and Harry sniffs.

- I reach into myself and what I pull out are pieces of you, Louis. They are the best part of me.

\- You're so much better than all that I am, Harry. So much more.

Louis kisses the top of Harry's head while Harry hiccups and Harry needs him to know one more thing, one more thing while he's here, while Harry's crying in his bed without being physically able to leave. Harry's mind is heavier than his body. Harry's thoughts float around self-pity; it's not it per se, but it's pretty close, too close. Harry only speaks again when he reminds himself, with more despair that he would usually let himself feel, that Louis could be anywhere else in the world but here.

He can choose to leave.

\- You're still here and I love you for it, you need to know that.

\- Shut up.

Harry snorts.

\- I hate to see you cry, you know, you have no idea how you look when you're smiling, I mean, you have no idea how you look all the time really, but when you smile, Harry, I swear... your smile could make flowers grow towards you, you have so much light.

Harry cries harder and Louis makes him his little spoon again before whispering "pretty when you cry". Harry can feel the knot inside his chest start to loosen and not for the first time in his life, not for the first time today, he thinks Louis gives him more room to breathe. Louis is a turquoise balloon filled with hope, filled with love. He always lets Harry breath him in.

\- Wanna tell me about your day?

Harry sniffs.

\- No.

\- Ok. I'll tell you about mine.

Harry nods.

\- Today I thought of you and not much else.

Harry snorts again and after two seconds, yawns; it's the safety haze fault, vanilla and fresh grass and sleep and Louis.

\- Want me to go?

Harry shakes his head and locks Louis' hand against his chest harder than he probably should. There aren't bruises in his hands from earlier today like he expected to be, so this will probably be fine too.

\- Please, no.

\- Ok, ok. Then, I'm not going anywhere, yeah?

Harry nods but doesn't let go of Louis' hand, even if it's only an assurance, even if it's only to feel his soft skin against Harry's fingers.

\- Want me to keep talking?

Harry nods.

\- Love the sound of your voice.

- Ok, then, love. But feel free to sleep at any time, yeah? I'll show myself out through my red carpet that just so happens to come in the shape of a fire escape.

Harry gives Louis a small smile, lost in the grey darkness, a smile that Louis will never see but that Harry hopes Louis can feel in his chest.

\- Ok. What do I want to tell you first? Oh, I know! I was thinking it over on my way here.

Harry makes himself comfortable, surrounded by Louis' arms.

\- Ahm, I know you have a habit of speaking in safe words... like, I know speaking your mind is hard because you think it has been twisted and manipulated to be a million other things, but never yours. And I know you have a habit of running, of hiding, of losing yourself - sorry, I don't know how you describe it - and I'm so glad that you don't do this shit with me because I'd go crazy, Bambi, I really would. But I know how it is for you, so I decided how I'm going to act from now on.

Harry has never paid more attention to anything else in his whole life. He stays perfectly silent, even breathes quietly, not wanting any sound to disturb the melody of Louis' voice nor the message he wants to tell Harry. When Louis talks like this, Harry knows it's important.

\- So, here is what I am going to do. I won't ever pressure you again like I did this afternoon. I won't scream that I'm real and scream that I love you as if I think that if I do it loud enough, you will believe me because I know that's not how it works and it's not fair to you.

Harry thinks "Please, don't ever stop screaming, Lou. I love the sound of your voice, it's like sunlight to me" and he thinks "Please, Lou, scream until you drown the sound of their voices, until the poison stops dripping; scream until there's silence".

\- I will just say, "You are safe here." When you feel the need to get away, know I will be here when you come back, just say, "The bird within my chest needs to breathe" and I will understand. And don't worry, I'll know, just by looking at your eyes, if you need my help getting back here. I'll help you, Bambi, I promise.

Harry's heart is about to burst out of his chest.

- When your mind is playing tricks on you and you start to get confused about who you are, about reality... about anything, really, cave into me. I mean it. Pour your fears into my skin, Harry. You know I'm not good at words, not like you are, but I'm trying to make this poetic so you would want to remember it in the future.

Harry kisses Louis' hand closer to his lips.

- I'll collect your anxieties in my collarbones, yeah? And I'll destroy them and I'll keep you safe. I think my hands were made for this, you know? Guiding you, guiding us, and I think I can do it, Haz. I want you to trust me, I want you to let my hands do what yours cannot do on days like this; let me take care of you, Curly, please.

Louis' voice sounds wet, like he's crying too and Harry feels like they are suspended from time. Again, in a universe only they know. He turns his face around to look at Louis and, in this gloom, Harry can't see anything but Louis' starry eyes.

\- So I won't tell you that I'm real and that I love you, I will just say, "You are safe here" ok? And you are. You are safe here. You are safe here. You are safe here. You are safe here. You are safe here.

Louis kisses him in between his sentences, a thousand little pecks, all over Harry's face and Harry can't take it anymore.

\- Louis, I haven't been taking my meds.

Louis stops kissing Harry and slowly lays back on his own pillow; he takes a while choosing how to react. Harry's heart doesn't beat right until he does. In the end, what Louis ends up saying is:

- I know.

Harry nods because obviously he did.

\- Look, love.

Harry's afraid of what's coming next.

\- There are people who get into drugs for, like, three months straight.

Harry has no idea where this is going.

\- There are people who don't sleep and there are people who go home and fuck other people and wake up 6am hating everything about themselves. I mean, there are people who smoke until their lungs give out, yeah?

\- I guess...

\- What I'm saying is that you're not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness. You're just human, and being human means you need to survive and you do so whichever way you deem fit, fuck everyone else. Ok?

Harry nods.

\- Ok.

\- Having said that, promise me, baby, promise me, you will.

\- Louis, these chemicals, they-

\- They are not bad, Harry, they aren't. They are what your body needs, and that's not a problem, it's like... it's like, I need food, yeah?

Harry turns around now, completely abandoning their spoon, because this is not the same thing.

\- This is not the same thing, Louis.

The volume of their voices is getting louder and Harry knows it is, but he can't really care right now.

\- Of fucking course it is, you give your body what it-

\- No, I'm ruining my body with those, Louis, don't you understand? It's like my body is this temple that I-

\- Oh, shut up, you pretentious twat, your body is not a temple, for fuck's sake.

Louis is so fucking loud, so fucking disrespectful, shouting in the middle of the night while he's at other people's houses. So fucking annoying. Harry has never loved anything more. He suspects he never will.

\- Listen to me, you fucker, your body is not a temple. Temples can be destroyed and desecrated or whatever. Your body is like... It's like a forest, it's like the forest at The Refuge, yeah? So picture this with me: picture these huge oak trees and these sweet-scented wildflowers everywhere, the wind, curly, the grass, the beautiful pinky thingy that I like...

\- Lilies.

\- A lot of beautiful pinky thingies. 

Harry laughs.

\- Your body is a forest. It will grow back, over and over again, no matter how badly it gets hurt, no matter how many times you get devastated. Those pills were made to let your body grow.

Harry thinks guilty about the glass jar underneath the sink, thinks about the huge amount of medicine he hasn't taken, his white and blue mountain. He doesn't say anything, just turns on his side again and waits for Louis to hug him again. Louis does. They stay in silence until their breathing gets synchronized. Only then does Louis hold tighter to Harry's back, coming even closer than he was before, rubbing the tip of his nose on the back of Harry's ear. It tickles, it's the most intimate caress, made with love.

\- If I'm not here-

Louis' voice breaks.

- If I'm not here, I want you to remember what I told you. If I'm not near, ok?

Harry could cry only by imagining a world where Louis would want to be near Harry but couldn't. It sounds like a senseless hell, sounds like torture.

\- If I'm not near, I hope my words touch you in places that my hands can't.

Louis places a kiss right under Harry's ear. Then, he combs Harry's hair with his delicate fingers, in the spot closest to Harry's nape. Louis takes Harry's hair out of the way, raising it, and places another kiss on the exposed skin; on the nape of Harry's neck. Only after doing it, he whispers:

\- I want you to know how sweet it is to be loved by you... Don't take that away from me. Please.

The words make Harry's whole body jerk.

\- I wouldn't. Ever.

Louis nods like he's only doing it to soothe Harry, nods like he knows that Harry is lying somehow. Harry hates the feeling.

\- What I mean, H, is stay safe, yeah? Stay safe because I like being alive at the same time as you.

Harry doesn't say anything after that, neither does Louis, and they leave the windows wide open so that Harry can hear the storm - the storm he knew was coming, the one he was waiting for all day - starting. They are surrounded by the greyest of the darkness and when Harry's bedroom lights up due to a new lightning bolt, it feels like camera flashes registering a life they could have lived if Harry was better.

Being held by Louis' arms, Harry's last thought before falling asleep, before losing consciousness, is "You deserve to be free" and "Gonna free you, Lou". Harry doesn't voice them out loud and, in the quietness, he can hear nothing but Louis' deep breathing mixed with the flashing thunders. Nobody answers his last thought, but his mind silently agrees.

❥


	5. The Plan

V

THE PLAN

November 17th

When Louis wakes up, the first image that pops into his mind, while he is still surrounded by his comfy blankets, is one of those old lollipops Louis used to beg his mom to buy him when he was still child. Chupa Chups, Louis guesses was their brand. Sweeter than sugar (just like Louis, according to Harry). They came in with this crunchy, explosive powder - probably made out of sugar mixed with a mess of different, colorful chemicals - in this small plastic bag, an envelope. It was sweet and sour, Mini Louis loved it. Instead of letting the powder cling to the lollipop, Louis would first lick the lollipop until it was gone and then, only then, he turned his attention to the little powder envelope. Louis would get the tips of his fingers sticky, eating the whole thing all at once. Sweet and sour. The artificial flavour was made to cause an explosive sensation on your mouth and Mini Louis would close his eyes whenever the feeling started, focusing on the way the sweet powder gave Louis’ tongue a fun, tingly sensation. When Louis opens his eyes, he feels like the same old powder, sweet and sour, is burning in his bloodstream, exploding in fireworks made out of happiness, consuming Louis from the inside. Louis feels euphoric, tingly everywhere. It's a good way to wake up, Louis thinks as he stretches his arms above his head, feeling like he has just been struck by lightning and like its energy is still pulsing through your veins; a power made out of kindness, shocks of electricity that feel like promises of a good day. Louis is happy. After finishing his stretching, making sure that this crazy energy reaches the tip of his toe, his belly, his collarbones, his face, Louis notices that he's also hungry. Really hungry. It's not that the feeling surprises him, it doesn't. Hunger is almost a permanent state for Louis, a craving he got used to and learned how to best manage it. Louis' surprise - and his amazement, honestly - comes from the fact that this morning, on this happy, happy morning, Louis wants to do something about it. Louis is hungry and he wants, truly wants, to eat.

Both of Louis' feet hit his bedroom floor at the same time and he jumps out of his bed like a boy on a mission. He is on a mission, Mission Breakfast. Harry would be so, so proud. Before Louis even tries to control himself, he's singing. Loudly:

_Well sometimes I go out by myself_

_And I look across the water_

_And I think of all the things, what you're doing_

_And in my head, I paint a picture_

From the corner of his eye, Louis looks at his reflection in the big old mirror he keeps in his bedroom and, yeah, Louis looks good. Even in his baggy white shirt - used so many times as a pyjama that it's almost coming apart around Louis' shoulders - and sleep rumbled, Louis looks healthy. It's the first time the idea even crosses his mind in a long, long time. It's the first time ever that the idea isn't received with a need to throw up, with an urge to make himself look unhealthy again, to make himself look pretty. Louis already feels pretty; the sensation is like lightning pumping through his veins. Louis smiles a bright smile at the big old mirror and the big old mirror smiles back at him and Louis knows, can simply feel in his whole body, that today is going to be a good day.

_Cos since I've come on home,_

_Well, my body's been a mess_

_And I've missed your ginger hair_

_And the way you like to dress_

_Won't you come on over?_

_Stop making a fool out of me_

_Why don't you come on over, Valerie?_

_Valerie..._

The sound of Louis' voice echoes through the house, loud and unapologetic, and Louis is glad that his mother is probably at work and that it's probably almost 2pm (not that Louis checked). The time and the place, alone in his house, give Louis a freedom he thinks he deserves. He wanna scream all the lyrics to all the songs he ever learned, he thinks he could do it, if he wanted to. He thinks he could sing until he ran out of voice, ran out of energy; Louis thinks he could sing until he fell asleep again, dreaming of curly haired singers duetting with Louis on a stage far away from here. Louis is probably missing all the right notes from Amy Winehouse's song but he doesn't care. Today wasn't made for perfection, it was made for acceptance and happiness. It's a good day.

On his way to the kitchen, Louis stops really quickly at his bathroom to complete his morning routine; which means that Louis brushes his teeth and makes sure he looks acceptable enough to be seen by the public eye. He looks way better than acceptable enough, though; Louis looks happy. The bathroom mirror smiles back at Louis just like the big old bedroom mirror did. Louis feels like he could conquer the world.

Louis climbs down the stairs on the rhythm of his singing, letting the music pulse through his body, and as he reaches the well-lighted kitchen, he goes straight for the grocery cabinet. He grabs tea, obviously, apple, banana and crackers. It's good. It's enough. Louis makes sure the kettle is boiling, prepping the tea water. Next, Louis picks up a plate and a mug; places everything he will need on the kitchen table. Quickly, he opens the fridge and picks up a small tub of butter. Great.

_Did you have to go to jail,_

_Put your house up on for sale, did you get a good lawyer?_

_I hope you didn't catch a tan,_

_I hope you'll find the right man who'll fix it for ya_

When the water finally is boiling, Louis picks the kettle up from the stove and brings it to the table. Perfect. The breakfast of the champions. Yummy. Louis is peeling his banana, eyeing it hungrily, a wonderful feeling, ready for that first bite, when Louis' mother enters the kitchen. She's not in her hospital uniform, still wearing her pinkish nightgown and her red slippers; which means Louis must have woken her with all of his singing. Oops. Louis looks at her, ready to apologize for all his annoying noise, but what he finds in her eyes isn't annoyance at all. There isn't a trace of irritation. She looks well-rested and delighted.

\- You look so healthy, Lou.

Louis can feel the crinkles by his eyes appearing when he flashes her his signature big, closed-eyes smile. It feels even better to hear the word coming from her; healthy. Louis is getting healthy.

\- I love when you eat.

There's no way for Louis to know what she came to the kitchen to do in the first place, before seeing him, but, whatever it was, it seems to have been completely forgotten by her. Unimportant once she saw Louis here. Instead of following whatever plans she previously had in her mind, Louis' mom sits in front of him at their kitchen table and the smile she's carrying on her lips is a kind one. Curious while still fond. She doesn't have a tea mug in her hands like she always does; using the little spoon to distract herself, drawing fleeting shapes into the dark liquid. She isn't holding a coffee mug in her hands either, which means her undivided attention is completely directed at Louis. She's present, she's here, and she wants to talk. Louis can do that.

\- I read somewhere that I'm not supposed to say this, not like this, at least, so you can stop me at any time, baby.

Louis nods, relaxed. She can ask him whatever she wants to, everything will be ok. Nothing can disrupt today, not really. It's a good day.

\- You're really recovering your weight, aren't you?

Louis laughs, a noise that sparkles into the air like sweet, explosive lollipop powder, and his loud laugh seems to ease some tension out of her shoulders.

\- I mean it!

Louis laughs again.

\- I noticed on your bum-

\- Mom!

They both laugh now, together, surrounded by a sweet and sour haze.

\- Stop talking about me bum, woman!

Louis says, a mini smile on his face, before he takes a small sip of his tea. The liquid is warm against his upper lip and while it goes down Louis' throat, making its way to Louis' belly, Louis feels even warmer inside than he was feeling just a second ago. Louis feels even better. The banana, when he eventually gets to it, doesn't taste like calories; it tastes pasty and soft, like Louis imagines an American thanksgiving pie would taste. The crackers taste like s'mores from a camping trip Louis never took and the apple reminds Louis of a carnival candy he never tried. All the breakfast food he selected tastes like lives Louis hasn't lived, lives he hasn't lived yet. Louis wants to live them.

\- I think I should meet this boy.

\- What boy?

\- The one that's making you this happy.

\- He's not-

\- Getting you so healthy-

\- He's not the one getting me healthy. It's not like… his merit. You're wrong.

\- I'm not.

\- Isn't this, this thing that you're doing, just romanticizing relationships as the salvation of everything?

\- No. This, this thing that I'm doing, is called "wanting to meet my son's boyfriend".

\- It's foolish romance.

\- It's love.

Louis snorts, pink-cheeked.

\- Lucky Lou.

She tries to pinch Louis' cheeks and Louis laughs and bats her hands away.

\- Don't overthink it.

- I do overthink everything, I know.

And then, Louis adds, with a big smile:

- But I also overlove.

Louis' mother nods.

\- Does he overlove you too?

- I didn't say I overloved HIM specifically-

\- Does he?

\- Yeah. Yeah, he does.

\- Good.

With that, Louis' mother stands up from her seat at their kitchen table and heads for their kitchen cabinet, most likely grabbing herself a mug for her afternoon tea. A woman of habits, she is. She is holding her favorite mug, a big one, white and olive, when she speaks again.

\- I thought you would be a bit more… resistant, you know?

\- Resistant?

\- More… skeptical, I guess. I thought you'd turn out to be more skeptical.

- With Harry?!

\- Not with Harry, with the whole love thing…

- The whole love thing…

\- I'm glad you aren't.

- Mom?

When she raises her head and looks at Louis, he can see that her eyes aren't empty at all, two royal blue spheres of curiosity. She's still present, she's still here; which eliminates Louis' suspicions that she was just starting to ramble, speaking in sentences Louis doesn't understand. She's not retracting into her mind palace, then. They are still having a conversation, Louis and her; a normal conversation between two present people. Still, a conversation that Louis isn't keeping up with.

- You're glad I'm not resistant to love? Is that it?

She takes a deep breath, as if Louis is forcing her to spell it out and maybe he is because he didn't understand and now he wants to know.

\- I'm glad you didn't let my experience get in the way, Lou, that's what I mean. With your father and-

\- Oh, no. No, mom. I know it's different, I try not to let it get to me.

\- I'm glad you do, baby.

She finishes setting up the kettle and sits in front of Louis again. Louis can see she's considering her next words carefully.

\- Five years today.

- Oh.

\- Since he left.

- Oh, mom, I'm sorry, I-

\- Louis, baby, I don't want you to be sorry. I'm-

- Mom-

\- Louis. Will you listen to me?

Louis nods quietly.

\- The only reason I'm telling you this is because it may be five years since he left, but it's been way longer since he was gone.

Louis furrows his eyebrows at her, still not saying a word. She takes it as a confirmation to continue.

\- I used to spend my days alone and I used to cry alone and live alone and love alone.

Her words don't hurt because Louis takes them personally, he doesn't. She's describing her marital life and it has nothing to do with how good a son Louis was; it has nothing to do with Louis. Her words hurt because she's describing her loneliness in a way Louis understands perfectly and Louis has always felt her pain as his own.

Extending his arm, Louis holds one of her hands on top of the kitchen table. His fingers are warm from holding his hot mug and, against her cold skin, Louis thinks she finds some comfort intertwined with Louis' fingers.

\- The only difference is that I would be alone and he would be physically standing by myself, physically, not mentally.

If Louis finds ironic how deeply she understands the dynamic of detachment from reality, Louis doesn't mention it.

\- He was always at that bar and when he wasn't, he was just bothering us-

Louis blinks his eyes once, just to check if the bar's faded out colors and its crooked sign are still burned in the back of Louis' eyelids. Yes, they are. Fuckers.

\- I would think "I can't believe he's gone" and I then would get in bed next to him.

She's shaking his head as if she's remembering too much and wants some of the most painful memories, useless ones that bring no learning, bring nothing but pain, to fall from her mind and into the floor. She's shaking his head because she's tired of some memories, she wants them to disappear. Louis wants it too.

\- He's been gone for too long, Lou, and I'm fine. The only thing I need is to know that you're ok and you are. That's all I need.

Louis lets her words dance around in his mind before he speaks.

- I think he did bother us too much.

Louis' mother laughs and that was all Louis was aiming for. She sips her tea slowly and when she speaks again, her voice is curious and pleasant. She looks like a different woman from before, any traces of sadness completely gone.

\- Do you bother him too much, Lou? Harry?

Louis smiles that one smile he can't help whenever this topic is brought up.

- Oh, please. He wants me to bother him for the rest of his life.

Louis' mother laughs again and the haze of sweet and sour lollipop powder is back. Louis feels it pulsing on his tongue, exploding in his veins. Happiness.

\- I'm sure he does, baby. Are you sweet to him?

\- He's stupid.

She laughs again, saccharine sweet.

\- So he's a patient one, then.

Louis smiles back at her because he loves her.

- I'm kidding. I'm practicing being kind instead of right.

\- Oh, yes. The first rule of a marriage. I'm familiar with it.

\- Who said anything about marriage?

\- You did.

- I didn't. I don't like marriages. Have you ever considered that a successful marriage ends when the other person dies?

\- See, boo? That's what I meant with resistant.

\- I'm not "resistant"!

\- Skeptical, then.

\- I'm not skeptical.

\- Then you will marry him.

- No, I won't marry him.

\- Yes. you will.

- Yeah.

Louis laughs, defeated.

\- Yes, I will.

When Louis' mother laughs this time, it's sweeter than sugar. The sound, this colorful, explosive powder. It sounds like happiness fireworks to Louis' ears.

❥

After finishing his 2pm breakfast, Louis had taken a quick shower - vanilla bubbles and wet caramel fringe - and put on his working clothes. For almost a month now, Louis has been trying to pull off a more professional look during work hours, hoping that the way he looks will, by itself, remind Reggie that there are some updates Louis has been waiting for. Ever since the last Battle of the Bands (the best Battle ever hosted at The Lighthouse in Louis' opinion and in Melissa's and in Jack's as well), Reggie hasn't said anything about Louis' possible promotion to manager and every day that goes by without any news on that matter makes Louis worry that maybe Reggie regretted ever making that promise to him in the first place, makes Louis question if Chloe Wells isn't leaving for King's College anymore and the manager position is no longer available; makes Louis wonder whether he simply isn't good enough for the job. Despite the lack of updates from Reggie's part and despite Louis' own insecurity, Louis tries to stay positive. Louis considers Reggie a highly determined man, strong-willed and honest; a bloke that doesn't shy away from any sorts of confrontation. It isn't like Reggie to change his mind from one second to the other, especially when it comes to something as big as the manager position in his music bar. Still, even if Reggie did change his mind, he wouldn't let Louis in the dark. The Reggie Louis knows and admires would talk to Louis, explain his reasons for backtracking on his decision and then apologize to Louis; Reggie's a great bloke like that. That's why Louis has no idea what exactly is happening and why is it taking so long for anything to happen at all. Instead of asking Reggie directly, Louis is a strong believer that you shouldn't ask questions whose answers you aren't ready to hear, Louis bets on his looks. He will dress smart, look professional and hope that Reggie will notice and remember that "Oh, yeah, that boy is supposed to be managing this place". It will work, Louis is sure. Eventually it will.

This new strategy of dressing professionally and looking qualified was nicknamed by Harry "Operation Peacock". Dorky Bambi. "What? That's how peacocks make their way through life, Louis, they show how pretty they look and they get the stuff they want". "You mean their mating ritual, Harold?!". Harry hadn't answered Louis' extremely valid question and, instead, had changed the subject by saying that Louis was even prettier than usual in his dress shirts. Louis let him get away with it.

Operation Peacock is to blame by the way Louis looks right now, walking down The Lighthouse's street in black skinny trousers, burgundy dress shirt (perfectly ironed thanks to Harry's tips) and a black overcoat his father bought him when he was 17. Louis tries not to be bothered by the fact that the coat still fits him perfectly after 6 years; Louis has grown, he knows he has; the washing must have stretched it. The point is that Louis looks professional; manager-position worthy.

The Lighthouse's street is empty with the exception of an old lady in an orange jacket who's walking her dog (a fatty Dachshund that has been making direct eye contact with Louis for the past 30 seconds and is making Louis feel slightly uncomfortable and secretly afraid, considering the Dachshund's murderer eyes and an apparently fixation with Louis' face). The old lady's gentle tone when she asks her psychopath dog "What are you looking at, Princess?" (Louis chooses to ignore the murderer's cute name) balances out the dog- Princess' aggressiveness. The old lady follows Princess' line of sight and when her eyes meet Louis', she gives him a small smile. Louis is about to smile back at the lovely old lady when a noisy car passes by at an absurd speed and stops abruptly in front of The Lighthouse. Louis can hear the music coming from inside the car.

_Fergalicious definition make them boys go loco_

_They want my treasure, so they get their pleasures from my photo_

_You could see me, you can't squeeze me_

_I ain't easy, I ain't sleazy_

_I got reasons why I tease 'em_

_Boys just come and go like seasons_

_Fergalicious_

As Louis finishes making his way up to the music bar, he doesn't take his eyes off of the car, a scratched black Fiesta with a bumper sticker that reads "Sorry officer, I thought you wanted to race" and another one, "Baby up in this bitch". Louis is almost close enough to touch the car when its passenger door opens and Jack pops out. There isn't a sin Louis has ever committed that will outweigh the saint Louis was when he didn't laugh loudly at the absurdity of the scene. Louis will go to heaven and Jack is to blame. Keeping quiet, Louis stops walking and waits until Jack notices that Louis is waiting for him. The amount of time Jack takes to say goodbye to whoever drove him here is what makes Louis curious: Louis takes another couple of steps only to see Dumb Blonde behind the wheel. She doesn't see Louis as she smacks the air with her glossy lips, sending a goodbye kiss to Jack. Again, Louis doesn't laugh and he may be getting pretty good at this whole being-a-saint thing. It's only when Jack closes the passenger door and turns around to head up to The Lighthouse that he sees Louis. If Jack is surprised by Louis' presence, he doesn't show any signs besides the slight widening of his eyes, almost imperceptible, but Louis is good with details. As soon as Jack's widened-eyes appeared, though, they were gone. Jack now has a small smile on his pale face. An indecent bobcat. Wordlessly, Louis answers him with his own malicious expression, provocative and suggesting, and just like that, that easily, Jack is laughing.

\- Ok, you caught me.

They start walking together towards the side entrance of The Lighthouse.

\- Does she still think you're the owner?

Jack only smiles and then winks a bobcat-wink at Louis.

\- Jack! For fuck's sake, you tosser.

Louis tries to make it sound like a reprimand, but he doesn't think he manages to, not when he's too focus on how dumb Dumb Blonde really is. Louis is impressed by how far he underestimated her naiveness and he already had high expectations for it. Jack doesn't seem to care about Louis' attempt at a reprimand, because he simply keeps talking, somewhat excited:

\- She's actually pretty nice and-

\- And dumb, right? Nice and dumb.

Jack immediately laughs.

- I mean, she thinks you need a ride to work…

\- Yeah.

- In her car.

\- Yes.

- To a bar you own.

Jack laughs.

\- Even when you live with your mom! Even when you don't have a car!

Louis really likes when Jack lets Louis bother him like this.

\- Are you sure there's a brain up there? She may be suffering an intoxication from too much lip gloss! Have you considered that, Jack?

Jack shakes his head and only says "She's great"; which is perfect because it gives Louis more content to work with, gives Louis more material to annoy Jack further.

\- Wow. She's great. Great! I wish a lad would call me that, you know? It would make me such a happy boy.

\- Shut up, I heard you telling Mel what Harry called you the other-

- Do you like her, Jackie? Because I'm getting this vibe that you might be in love...

\- Don't call me Jackie, Louisa.

- Do you take her on those fancy dates? The romantic ones?

\- Louis, I'm not gonna give you the details-

\- No! No, no, no. You owe me that! I introduced you-

\- You didn't introduce us, you lied to her and-

\- And she believed me and now she loves you!

Jack holds the bar's side door open for the both of them and Louis doesn't thank him as a punishment. Jack knows what he did. As they enter The Lighthouse's saloon, Melissa's voice meets them immediately:

\- It's been 10 seconds since the door opened and I can already hear Peaches' shouting.

\- Melissa! I just wanna hear Jack admit that I was right in guiding his new girlfriend to him. I'm like an angel of love, lighting up lovers' paths to each other.

\- Oh, is that all you want to shut up? For me to say you were right? - Jack asks.

\- Yeah.

\- You were right, Louis.

\- Can you say it one more time? I'm sorry, I have a kink in people admitting I was right.

\- Fuck's sake, what's going on? - Melissa complains because she only heard Louis' last sentence and doesn't understand the gravity of the crime Jack's committing.

\- You don't understand, Mel! Jack doesn't want to tell me love stories.

\- Isn't that like Harry's job? - Melissa asks and she's wrong.

- Nono, me and Harry we make love stories...

Melissa rolls her beautiful brown eyes and Jack laughs.

- Every night…

\- Louis. - Melissa's voice is warning.

- In my bed-

\- Louis! For fuck's sake! - Melissa complains again because she's rude and weak and can't handle a bit of real love being thrown at her. The three of them start making their way towards the employee's locker room.

- So now, if you'll excuse me, I wanna know about Jack's love stories.

\- There's no love in Jack's stories. - Melissa answers and she's right.

\- I'm literally right here. - Is Jack's grumpy answer.

\- Well, is there? Love, I mean. Are you- Oh my God, is it Dumb Blonde? - Melissa asks because she's the worst and because she doesn't know how to behave herself in these social situations.

Louis immediately starts whispering at her, angrily:

- Melissa! We don't call her that in front of him! 

Jack's answer is a simple "I hate the both of you".

\- Stop hating, Jackson, that's the point. Spread love-

\- My name's not Jackson-

\- Spread love by sharing your date stories with Dumb B- wait, what's her name again?

\- I'm not gonna tell you that. - Jack says because Jack thinks he has a choice on what he shares or doesn't share with Louis. It's cute. Jack's naive like that. Maybe that's why he and Dumb Blonde make such a beautiful couple; no brains, only hearts.

\- Ok, Mel, now she's really Dumb Blonde for us, we're allowed to use it as her real name forever and ever-

\- Her name's Brittany. - Jack says, like Louis knew he would.

- I love when you tell me your secrets, Jackson.

Jack rolls his eyes, arms crossed against his chest as he leans against one of the walls of the employee's locker room.

\- So... dates?

Melissa is the one who answers Louis' question instead of Jack:

\- Peaches, stop bothering him. He's getting red in the face.

\- Well, of course he is. Look at that skin color. It's almost… transparent. I think if we took him to the beach he would blind us, reflecting the sunlight.

Melissa tries not to laugh before answering Louis. Jack's not moving, still leaning against the wall, and he's not red in the face either. He's just acting grumpy, pretending to be bothered by all the mess, but all three of them know how much they tease each other. It's a daily thing; it brings them closer together.

\- As if you're that tan, Peaches.

\- I'm not tan, Melissa, I'm golden.

\- More like… very fair. Porcelain. - Is Melissa's answer because she's blind.

\- I'm the color of the sun!

\- I bet you'd look like a fried shrimp if you'd stayed in the sun long enough. - Melissa says because she's being rude again.

\- Nono, that's Jack! Jack's a shrimp. Look at the color of that hair!

Jack laughs loudly, a happy bobcat, before answering:

\- And you are a betta fish, you tosser.

\- A fucking betta fish? That's how you're gonna insult me, Jackie?

\- Well, it's because you're pretty, but you also wanna fight everyone.

Louis considers Jack's answer for a second.

\- You know what? I like you, Jack. You're a nice guy, yeah?

Louis goes to hug Jack and Jack lets him, hugs Louis back in a bro hug.

\- You've gotta be kidding me. - Melissa murmurs while rolling her eyes.

\- Don't be bitter, Melissa, we're spreading love here.

\- What the fuck happened to you? - Melissa asks in a fake-disgusted tone.

\- You know exactly what happened to me.

Louis winks at her.

\- Harry happened to you? - Melissa asks because she knows.

\- Oh, yeah. Dick so good it fixes my attitude problems.

Melissa and Jack scream at the same time and that was exactly what Louis was going for. Louis loves when he gets what he wants.

\- I'm getting out of here, I'll see you guys downstairs. - Jack says before leaving the locker room.

Melissa stays behind, though, and Louis can tell only from her body posture that she has something to say. She's looking at the ground, lips pressed together, while she blocks Louis' way to the door.

- Shoot it.

When Melissa looks up, her eyes are happy and that's all that really matters to Louis.

\- Peaches?

- Me?

\- I'm keeping it.

Her smile is big and bright, perfect for a future mom, and Louis is running to her arms in less than a second.

\- You're keeping Louise?

Melissa stops smiling right away, her cheeks close to Louis', as if somehow the topic now became a serious matter.

\- You know, I told Luke about your idea.

- It's not an idea, it's her name.

Melissa continues talking as if Louis never said anything.

\- He laughed at first-

\- Tosser.

\- And then…

Her eyes are shining again and Louis still doesn't know where this is going.

\- He approved you as the godfather!

Louis wants to scream.

- The godfather?! Of little Louise?!

Melissa nods, her eyes tender.

\- Yeah, Lou…

Louis hugs her tighter.

- It's going to be such a great honor, Mel, oh my God! Thank you! And I admire your courage so much-

Melissa pulls her face a couple of centimetres away from Louis', perfect eyebrows furrowed, confused.

\- Courage?

\- Yeah, to put you and Luke in risk like that...

\- What the fuck, Louis?

\- Well, depending on how well my relationship with little Louise develops, I may be forced to kill you both so I can raise her as my own.

Melissa snorts.

\- Have I told you how much I hate you today?

- You love me.

Melissa doesn't deny it because she's a kind, kind woman whose baby Louis will watch over for the rest of his life. The little bean inside of Melissa's belly will grow up under Louis' protection, under Louis' care. Friends are the family you choose. The thought makes Louis want to cry; the idea that someone would trust him for such a colossal mission; the life-long commitment; the privilege. They share a silence that is nothing more than a haze made out of friendship, of loyalty, of life-long promises. They share a silence made out of trust. They are a family.

\- Thank you, Mel.

❥

With the exception of the nights dedicated to the Battle of the Bands, during weekdays, The Lighthouse closes its doors at 10pm. It's a good closing hour, in Louis' opinion, considering not only the size of their town but also the fact that their real public, their loyal customers that have been drinking and singing at the bar for years, only appear on the weekends. Weekend nights are a completely different deal: the bar gets absolutely crowded and there's barely room to breathe and Louis celebrates if he ever manages to get home before 5am. Weekend nights are chaotic. Today, though, it's a Thursday and it's 11pm. Louis is happy.

Heading for the employee's locker room after his long day of work, Louis is a bit tired, about to clock out, when the wooden door of Reggie's office opens and Reggie sticks his head out. He looks glad when he spots Louis on the hallway and Louis suspects Reggie must have heard Louis' footsteps climbing up the stairs and, not being able to tell which one of his employees was heading to the locker room, had to open his office door to check. For some unknown reason, it looks like Louis was the employee Reggie was hoping for.

\- Louis, son, do you have a moment?

How can Louis ever say no to that?

\- Yeah, Reggie, sure.

Louis turns around, heading straight to Reggie's office; employee's locker room and the feeling of heading home early completely forgotten. As soon as they enter the small office, Reggie closes the door behind them and sits across from Louis at his work desk. Reggie's armchair is tall and he looks powerful when he sits on it, looks like a real boss. The king of The Lighthouse, their captain. On top of Reggie's dark wood desk, there are a pile of folders (filled with all those important papers Louis knows by heart), an old notebook (which password is "blackbeard1964"; a tribute to the most infamous pirate Reggie has ever heard of added to the year of Reggie's birthday) and a single photograph of Reggie's mother, Ms. Doyle, a stern old lady who looks exactly like a brunette Margaret Thatcher. Trying not to appear as nervous as he is, Louis takes his time looking at each one of the objects slowly, admiring their details; stalling. When Louis brings his gaze to Reggie's face, Reggie's eyes are warm and he looks proud. Louis can already feel the little tingling sensation deep down in his belly.

\- Louis. First things first, I want you to know how proud I am of you.

Louis stays speechless, only nodding (professionally, obviously).

\- It's no secret that your Battle was the best one we had in a long while and it didn't even need to be. But you made it and that's what matters.

Louis tries not to let the fact that Reggie just called the last Battle of the Bands "Louis' Battle" get to his head, but it's hard. So, he just keeps nodding.

\- I won't be surveilling you as much as I did with Chloe. I think you're way better skilled and-

The rest of Reggie's sentence is lost in the haze of Louis' attempt not to taste the bitterness of wanting King's College to feel the same way Reggie does. There's another reality, in a different universe, where King's College sends Louis an acceptance letter written with all the words Reggie is saying to him right now. Royal blue envelope; golden sentences on some fancy looking white paper. The letter inside the envelope makes Louis' mom proud and Louis, finally happy. In this parallel reality, Louis studies whatever field he chooses to, explores the academic world, dedicates himself to his interests, graduates, gets a master's degree, becomes an excellent university teacher, spends his free time in that beautiful, beautiful library, unveiling all its secrets. It would be a beautiful life, Louis is sure of it. In this reality, though, the only reality that truly matters, there's no King's College for Louis. For Louis, there's only Reggie and that will have to be enough. Louis is stuck in this reality and there's no changing that.

Slowly, Louis allows Reggie's words to make their way to him. It's enough.

\- I know you didn't have the easiest life, son, and still you surprised me like that.

Reggie's voice is reaching an emotional tone in a way Louis never heard before and, even if just for this one second, Louis feels happy in this reality. It's the reality he deserves.

\- You're gonna go far, kid. I'm glad I can offer you a way to take that first step. Louis, welcome to the manager position at The Lighthouse.

If Louis and Reggie were closer, if Louis considered Reggie more of a friend instead of only a boss, Louis would have hugged him right now. Louis would have climbed over Reggie's little work desk, dropped all those folders and the notebook and Ms. Doyle's picture to the floor, only to get his arms around Reggie's neck and thank him forever. But, as they have always kept their relationship purely professional, Louis only holds one of Reggie's hairy hands with both of his own and shakes while saying "Thank you, Reggie, thank you so, so much". Reggie only shakes his head at Louis with a satisfied smile on his face and stands up, leading Louis to his office door, letting Louis walk in front of him.

As Louis starts opening Reggie's office door, he decides that this is a good reality. He can make it work. Not only does he have his mom and Harry, now Louis also achieve a relatively stable position at work and things are only getting better because-

BOOM!

- AAAAAAA!

When Louis recovers his senses, after making sure that his heart hasn't exploded and that he hasn't peed his pants, he realizes that Melissa is here, right by Reggie's office door, smiling excitedly at Louis, and that she has apparently just launched this huge confetti-cannon, covering Louis in the smallest colorful pieces of paper to ever exist. Louis looks like a rainbow boy, ready for pride. The three seconds that takes Louis to understand what is going on seem to be enough time for Melissa, Jack and Reggie to shout, all together:

\- Congratulations, Louis!

Louis is still amazed, eyeing everyone dizzily, grateful beyond words, when Melissa hugs him tight, getting his feet off the ground.

\- Congratulations, Peaches! I'm so, so happy!

Only when Jack approaches Louis for their own bro hug does Louis realize that Jack is holding a bottle in each hand: vodka and tequila, the expensive ones. It's a party then.

\- You're so tiny to be a boss, mate. - Jack says and Louis wants to kill the stupid redhead bobcat, but Louis' too happy for murder right now; maybe later - But you're so good at what you do, Louis, you're gonna be the bloody best one.

- Oh, thank you, Jackie.

And when Louis whispers: "If you ever call me tiny again, I'll fucking fire you", Jack only laughs, not taking Louis seriously at all. It's an absurd, an unforgivable atrocity that Louis only forgets about when Melissa appears holding a tequila shot in each hand. One for Louis and one for Jack. They toast and they drink and then they drink some more.

By the time Reggie comes back from his office bearing a chocolate cake with pink and blue frosting written "Manager Lewis" on top, Louis considers himself to be slightly tipsy, almost drunk but not there yet. It's a good feeling, it matches his mood. Louis doesn't think twice before grabbing a disposable plate and fork: he chooses a big, fat slice, extra chocolate, extra frosting, extra everything. Louis ends up not taking more than one bite. After tasting the sugar against his tongue, he discreetly gives his plate to Jack, who eats the whole thing without realizing in two minutes tops. It doesn't matter. The most important thing is that the chocolate cake tasted like chocolate, not like happiness or anything like that, no, but like chocolate. It didn't taste like throwing up, it didn't taste like calories. It didn't taste like anything but chocolate. It's Louis' favorite flavour now, a healthy flavour.

Reggie disappears for a while when Jack starts confessing his love for Dumb Blonde in a higher volume than normally acceptable and Melissa, the menace, completely sober, starts to encourage him, forcing Jack to sing an out of tune version of "Teenage Dream". Louis' ears hurt and he feels slightly embarrassed by all the noise the three of them are making and blames it for Reggie leaving them in the saloon for a bit.

As soon as Reggie returns, though, Louis knows that he was wrong: Reggie didn't leave them because of their noise (even if that would be completely acceptable). Reggie left because he wanted to grab something, something that it's in his hands right now, as he approaches Louis with the same satisfied smile on his face again.

\- I think this belongs to you now.

On the name tag, it reads: "Louis Tomlinson - Manager" and Louis can feel his eyes crinkling on the side of his face. He can't stop smiling, though; too much tequila, too much vodka and too much happiness.

\- Thank you, Reggie.

When Louis touches the name tag's cold metal, he is sure that this small square thing is the best thing Louis has ever held. Louis downs a couple more shots just so that he won't forget the feeling of satisfaction, of gratitude; it feels like being surrounded by sweet and sour pixie dust. Today is a good day, Louis already knew.

❥

Louis is a reasonable lad. At least, he thinks he is, he hasn't received any critics in that matter. He has a fairly good sense of justice, considers himself to be a sensible and logical boy. He has a sound judgment, he thinks. Louis always tries to speak the truth (even if he doesn't always succeed on that) and always admits when he's wrong (almost always, anyway). That's why Louis can admit that, right now, he is drunk. Not terribly, terribly drunk, but happy-drunk. It feels awesome, if you disregard the fact that Louis has been trying to pick up his front door key from underneath the pottery vase for the last ten minutes with no success. But it's ok, he's laughing. Happy-drunk.

After Louis finally manages to pick up the key - without falling, yay, Louis! - he goes straight for the kitchen. His mother isn't home, he knows, but his bottle of wine is and that's what truly matters. "Where are you, baby girl?". Louis' party isn't over, he's the only one who can decide when it will end. Louis is the manager of his party, he's the manager of everything. As he does a little dance to celebrate his daily victory (a very manly shaking of his bum), Louis can feel the metal of his new name tag digging against the skin of his thighs, cold inside his front pocket; just as cold as his wine will be.

The bottle is waiting for Louis just like he knew it would, sitting just as cold as he imagined, on the fridge door.

\- There you are, you naughty-

As Louis tries to pick up the bottle, his drunk-clumsy fingers hit the bottle's neck hard. The bottle almost falls. Louis giggles.

\- Oops.

Almost falls but doesn't, which means Louis' wine is still intact. Perfect.

\- Why did you run away, baby? You almost fell! Aren't you my baby girl- Oh! Does this mean you're a boy? That's why you were running away?

The wine bottle is a boy. Louis is happy-drunk.

\- Ok, I'm sorry. What's your name then, big boy?

Louis grabs the wine bottle successfully this time and starts walking toward the kitchen cabinet to find himself a wine glass. As soon as he does reach the cabinet, though, he thinks "Who am I kidding?" and decides to drink straight from the bottle, like a gentleman.

\- I think I'm gonna call you… winer… I don't know. Something that makes me think of wine… Winny, maybe. Winney. Or… Winner, like me, a manager. Or… or… Wiener! Wiener, because I like wieners!

Louis laughs out loud because he's happy-drunk and everything feels easier right now than it usually does. Louis is celebrating. The nightlight only adds to the velvety feeling, making everything feel softer around the edges.

- Hello, Wiener. I'm afraid it's only me and you tonight.

The thought makes Louis feel a bit of loneliness for a second, but the alcohol swimming in his veins cancels it out. After placing the wine bottle, Wiener, on the kitchen table, Louis searches for the wine opener and once the bottle is opened, Louis takes three big gulps.

\- So, big boy- AA!

Louis gives a little jump, even if he will never admit it to anyone ever. It's the second one today. Louis should be tougher, he will work on that later. Now, Louis seems to have scared himself because something vibrated on his bum. Apparently, his phone. How could Louis have known it was his phone? It could have been a murderer of pretty happy-drunk boys alone in their homes. Thank God Louis is lucky and it was just his phone. Ok, it's ok. Louis is safe again.

When Louis takes his phone off of his pocket, Melissa's name appears on the screen with a "call me after your hangover is gone so we can celebrate some moreeee peaches". Louis ignores her for now. He's sure he'll remember to call her in the morning, whenever the morning arrives. Instead of answering Melissa, Louis opens a new text as he climbs up the stairs to his bedroom; his phone in one hand, the wine bottle in the other. What? All this talk about wieners and big boys made Louis miss a certain someone.

Closing his bedroom door - squeak! - and looking at his unmade bed, a comfy mess of cozy blankets and soft pillows, Louis types:

\- come sleep with me please my bed is v empty and i want u in it

Harry takes too long to answer, so Louis drinks some more. Two purple gulps.

\- lets cuddle bambi and when i say cuddle i mean aggressively makeouttttt

Louis' phone is still not lit up with thousands of Harry's texts begging Louis to let him in, which is an absurd in itself, so Louis decides he hasn't gone far enough yet. Time to pull out the big guns.

\- not wearing anything right now……...

Louis types it as he starts to quickly take off his burgundy button-down, despite the cold, just so that he's being partially honest with Harry. Louis would feel guilty otherwise, he's usually trustworthy with Harry, always tries to be reliable with him. Feeling guiltier for keeping his black skinnies on, Louis takes off his shoes and his socks. Harry will have to make do with this. A partially-naked Louis is almost an all-naked Louis. If Harry wants to be spoiled, he should have gotten here sooner.

Staring at his no-messages screen, Louis starts typing again. Harry always answers to Louis' humour, he simply can't help it. "Sweet Bambi". Even when Harry doesn't even find the joke funny (because Harry's sense of humour is terrible and only Louis' opinion matters), he will still laugh, still snort or still give Louis a kiss. Good for Harry. Thinking about Harry's inability to not respond to Louis' humour, Louis starts typing again.

\- if youre feeling down, ill go down on you

And that's all it takes, apparently, because finally - "Fucking finally" - Louis phone lights up. Half a bottle too late, by the way, but Louis won't complain. He's trying to behave well-enough so Harry will come over. When Louis opens the message, he finds nothing but a link. A playlist link. Is Harry stupid? "Why are you stupid?", Louis murmurs to his empty bedroom. That's a question Louis asks himself too many times to be considered normal. Louis should look into that later, because he's behaving himself right now and so he takes three deep breaths instead of simply ringing Harry up and asking Harry himself. Chugging down Weiner's content as if it was a baby bottle filled with some sort of sweet grape juice, Louis opens Harry's link because he has no other choice but to do it; apparently, it's the only answer Louis deserves. The link goes straight to Harry's Spotify page. By habit, Louis starts taking in the playlist by analyzing the songs Harry picked. They are all good songs, sexy songs; Louis likes them. It takes too much time for Louis to read the playlist's name, but when he does, he can feel his cheeks turning the same reddish shade of his mouth. "Songs I will eat you out to", it's how it's called. Louis immediately closes the app and resists the urge of throwing his phone on his bed and screaming like a teenage girl into his pillow. Louis is a strong boy. He will wait until he's sure Harry's coming over. Then, he will scream into his pillow in a very cool, very manly way. Keeping all his emotions bottled up, and not inside the wine bottle, Louis types:

- that means youre coming?

Harry clearly has his phone in his large, large hands now, thank God, because his next message doesn't take a second longer to arrive.

\- Not yet ;) Wanna look at you when I do. x

This is the best sext Louis ever received. He'll never admit it.

\- yeah??????

\- You always do look adorable grasping at the sheets on your bed.

\- stop sexting me and come overrrrrr

Louis adds:

- idiot :*

Harry doesn't answer this one last text, this one perfectly articulated last text, not that Louis was really expecting him to. Still, the non-lighting up of Louis' phone gives enough time for Louis to finish his wine bottle and to start typing again:

- here's a wanking tip, if youre not coming over: let me do it for you

Louis doesn't have enough time to actually send this last text before he hears the front door opening. Perfect. Here comes Bambi. That's all Louis ever wanted. As Louis stays as quiet as he can, just so that he can hear when the heavy footsteps start climbing up the stairs, Louis thinks about the way he doesn't even remember telling Harry about his key's secret hiding place. Louis honestly can't recall ever pointing out to Harry where he hides his front door keys, underneath the pottery vase. The thought makes Louis want to kiss Harry a bit harder than he usually does and that's because Louis loves the way that Harry just knows, loves the way Harry pays attention to every little thing in Louis' life, the way he always absorbs more and more of everything that is Louis or Louis related. Louis absolutely loves it. No one has ever made him feel like this before, special and heard and paid attention to, even in moments when Louis wasn't expecting to be. Harry makes Louis feel worthy all the time, all the fucking time, even when Louis doesn't even remember he's existing himself. It's like Harry's constantly proving to Louis that yeah, Louis is existing and he's beautiful while he does; the prettiest of all living things. The feeling is probably better described by Louis's brain as swallowing explosive pixie dust: slowly feeling it against his tongue, surrounding his heart; not sour, but only sweet.

The little squeak that Louis' bedroom door makes whenever it opens or closes is the only sound Louis hears now, but Louis has his back to the noisy bedroom door and he doesn't turn around; not until the door is closed again. Even then, he waits. The squeaky sound is surrounded by the smell of tangerines and Louis knows he's here. Louis is glad he's here, Louis was waiting for a long time.

\- You came in just the right time.

Louis chooses not to think about the two different meanings his sentence has: the sexy meaning, the one Harry was texting him about; and the deeper one, the one about how Harry appeared in Louis' life at just the right time, whenever that was.

Harry must have noticed the empty wine bottle – “bye, Wiener, my friend” - on Louis' nightstand, because instead of answering Louis, Harry asks:

- Have you been drinking?

Harry doesn't sound concerned, only curious. Louis isn't worried, he knows how much Harry loves happy-drunk Louis (as much as he loves any other Louis' version that has ever existed, with the exception of the no-I-don't-wanna-eat-Harold version of Louis).

\- Yeah, I just left my job.

\- Oh, so this is consolation sex, then?

Louis turns around because he wants to kill him.

\- Well, aren't you a bastard?

The first thing Louis sees when he turns around aren't Harry's eyes. The first thing Louis sees are Harry's lips, wet and plush and red in the almost-darkness of Louis' room, and that's a real problem because it makes Louis want to cancel his little game of "pretending to have been fired" and just jump into Harry's arms. Harry's lips make Louis want to kiss him until Harry gets drunk on the wine that isn't here anymore; Louis wants to paint Harry's lips a purplish shade too, make them bruised-kissed. Instead of simply following his instincts, his desires, Louis lets the urge pass through his mind like a strong breeze - irresistible and calming - as he takes a deep breath. All Louis can smell is Harry's shampoo and Harry's skin and- Louis can do this. He's going to do this. He's no weak lad, he can resist Harry for more than three seconds, for Christ's sake.

Focusing his eyes back on Harry, Louis finds him still standing by Louis' bedroom door, a suggestive smile on his plush lips as he eyes Louis up and down. As explosive powder swirls through Louis' veins, Louis chooses to ignore the cocky Greek god in front of him and focuses on his little game, Louis' very nice little game that Harry is disturbing. They have all the time in the world for whatever's in Harry's mind later.

\- I just left my job.

Harry raises his eyebrows like he doesn't believe Louis for a second and is just politely pretending to, silently asking Louis how long is this going to take. Harry looks at Louis with a clear question in his eyes: "How long do I have to keep you entertained until I can ruin you in this bed?". Louis ignores him.

\- I couldn’t work for that man after what he said to me.

Harry's trying harder now, trying harder to pretend that he believes in Louis, acting like he does. Louis can tell by the effort Harry's clearly putting into his facial expression: mouth just a bit open in shock, his eyes widened, eyebrows still raised. Still, the only thing Louis can focus on is the way Harry looks all bad boy like this; in the gloom of Louis' bedroom, with an air of impatience, hair a mess, mouth slightly open, unblinking predatory eyes following Louis' every move. Harry looks cocky, like he just can't be bothered by any of this whole thing and is only making an effort because this is Louis. The thought brings a smile to Louis' face. Without Louis' intention, his mind starts to wander just by looking at Harry like this. In a blink of an eye, Louis can imagine he and Harry in college, King's College, because that's where all of Louis' academic fantasies seem to go to anyway: Louis visits a different universe where he is this well-behaved nerdy boy and Harry's just a jerk frat boy who just so happens to do everything Louis wants him to. They are the best couple. In this parallel reality, Harry can even be good at sports, who knows? Since Louis is dreaming that far… Maybe Louis will be Harry's favorite cheerleader. The picture makes a shiver run down Louis' spine and Louis will have to thank Harry for the visual later, thank him in bed probably.

\- What did he say? \- Harry asks curiously, play-pretend, but his voice is low, hoarse. Harry sounds interested, concerned, even if it's just for show. He's pretending to be worried, even when they both know that if Reggie ever really said anything harmful to Louis, really did, Harry would be the first one to take matters into his own hands.

\- You're fired!

Harry gasps like he believes Louis's words and then acts like he's going to comfort Louis, a suggestive smile still on his face, on his beautiful, beautiful face. It takes Harry three large steps to cross the entirety of Louis' bedroom and reach Louis. Bloody giraffe legs. Harry's hands are already circling Louis' waist when Louis pushes Harry's chest until Harry's back at a safe distance. Insulted, Harry looks at Louis' hand, which is looking absurdly small against the expanse of Harry's chest; eyes offended and eyebrows furrowed when he looks back at Louis' eyes.

- What? Comfort sex!

- Harold, I'm just taking the piss! I'm the manager now!

Harry, who didn't believe Louis in the first place anyway, just grabs Louis by Louis' waist, completely disrespecting the distance stipulated by Louis' hand and starts spinning Louis in the air. Harry, Louis' bad boy, is giggling while he does so.

- Are you that happy for my promotion, then?

\- Yes, sure. Congratulations, baby. I also happen to love celebration sex.

Louis slaps Harry's head until Harry puts him on the ground again.

\- I do wanna celebrate-

Louis' sentence is cut short by a yawn. Alcohol always did make him sleepy.

\- Aren't you too sleepy to celebrate, though?

Louis isn't sleepy. He's happy-drunk. And maybe sleepy, ok, but he also wants Harry, needs Harry, and that's way more important.

\- There's always something in the air when you're around, Curly. It makes sleep useless.

Harry shakes his head like he isn't listening to Louis anymore as he says: "Gonna put you to bed". Louis is about to protest when Harry adds:

\- Do you want me to stay over?

Harry should have predicted Louis' answer. Slow Bambi.

\- No, go away.

Harry doesn't even have the courtesy of pretending to believe Louis this time. Harry's getting too spoiled.

\- Don't be difficult, it doesn’t suit you.

Louis wants to bite him, but he settles for rolling his eyes.

\- I know your mom's not here, so I'm gonna ask you again: do you want me to stay over?

\- Do you want an honest answer?

- Always.

If that's what Harry wants, that's what Harry gets.

\- Of fucking course I want you to stay over, Harold. What the fuck?

Harry laughs.

- I want you all the fucking time. In my head, in my bed.

Harry stops smiling and starts nodding like he agrees, like Louis is reading Harry's mind out loud; a secret book only Louis can access, made only for Louis.

\- There are these moments when I'm alone, Haz, that I can't think of anything else but your hands all over my thighs, whenever you give me your tightest grip-

Louis can feel Harry's hand sliding down his spine as Harry looks at him like Louis is the most fascinating thing he has ever seen; a masterpiece only Harry can worship; a work of art Harry wants to ruin.

- I want you so much. Whenever I'm sad, I want to exhale my loneliness into you-

\- Me too, baby, me too.

Harry starts kissing Louis' neck then, sweet little pecks, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind, but Louis just keeps on talking, confessing all the different ways he craves Harry, every second of every day.

\- And then, whenever I'm ok, I just want to breathe you in-

Harry bites Louis' skin lightly, but the way he starts sucking on it right after, playing with it between his teeth and his tongue, is how Louis can tell that’s going to be a love bite there in the morning.

- I want you and I want you to want me to.

Louis confesses as he tangles his fingers into Harry's messy hair and Harry doesn't wait a second before he starts babbling into Louis' neck. He's barely coherent when he gets like this. Louis loves it.

- Want you all the time, Lou, want you all the time, baby. There are days I want you for years and it's not that we even have to-

Harry starts sliding his hands into the back of Louis' jeans and Louis lets him, holding on to Harry's words.

\- There's a part of me that just wants you in this innocent way, Lou, just wanna watch some movie with you or go grocery shopping or take you to work-

Louis nods and pulls Harry's hair a bit because first, he's getting off track and second, he's starting to squeeze Louis' bum too hard.

\- But I get so greedy sometimes, baby-

Harry takes a deep breath as if he's waiting for Louis to stop him but Louis isn't going to. Just keeps running his fingers through Harry's mane. When Harry speaks again, his voice sounds simultaneously satisfied and pained. Louis has no idea how he manages to do it.

\- I get so greedy, baby, just keep replaying us in my mind, me taking off your shirt, the way you always fall onto your bed, so pretty, baby, so pretty, an angel, my ang-

Louis pulls Harry's hair again and the noise Harry makes is indecent.

\- Of course I want you, Lou, it's all I think about. The way your mouth shakes out my name, your pink lips trembling-

- Ok, you can stay.

Harry lets out a puff of air in Louis' neck, warm and wet, and Louis suspects he was holding it in all along, waiting until he made Louis say exactly what he wanted Louis to. Louis hates him sometimes.

- Yeah?

Harry asks before kitten-licking Louis' neck in the exact same spot he bit earlier, which means that definitely going to be a love bite there and that Harry can already see its reddishness. Possessive bastard.

\- Not on the bed, though.

Harry doesn't bat an eye at Louis' answer.

\- On the floor?

Louis nods.

- On the floor.

Instead of complaining or getting a bit mad (or believing Louis for even a second), like any other person would, Harry just accepts the information and starts singing, singing! At arse o'clock in the morning. It's the little things, Louis thinks, following the sound of Harry's voice with his heartbeat; it's the little things that make Louis know that Harry was made for him. Thanks, universe.

_- I'd sleep better on your floor than I would ever in my bed…_

While Louis tries to contain the fond smile spreading across his face, Harry keeps singing, voice low and melodic, and grabs Louis' hand. Harry places a little kiss on Louis' open palm and Louis only understands what Harry's trying to do when they are already dancing. Slowly swinging together in the darkness of Louis' bedroom at 4 o'clock in the morning. It's better than anything Louis has ever felt.

\- _And if your carpet makes my face itch, it'd still be heaven in my head. I would play more than just four chords, if it's a song that you might like and I am not very good, but I would practice every night…_

\- I love you, you know?

Harry only kisses the top of Louis' head and murmurs: "I know. I love you more". Louis decides to let Harry be wrong for now, he deserves it, and only lays his head into Harry's broad shoulder. In the darkness, Harry just keeps holding Louis close, still singing in his perfect voice, saccharine sweet to Louis' ear, pixie dust in human form, surrounding Louis with his magical power. Louis feels golden, feels otherworldly. Louis closes his eyes and starts to wonder what he did to deserve this because he's afraid he doesn't. It's too much, it's too good. Louis feels greedy to want it forever, but he does. Oh, he does.

- She said, " _Break your neck, and I will love you every night. You will be mine_ ".

Louis presses his head into Harry's chest now, just to listen to Harry's heartbeat, the pulse of Louis' universe. Louis wants to feel, once again, how connected they are; how inevitable this is, how permanent they are. Pressing his ear to Harry's cotton shirt, Louis can feel Harry's heart beating inside of his own and he knows that it beats there because it's Louis', it belongs to him. Louis will take care of it for the rest of his life.

Harry's voice is nothing more than a whisper now.

_- I would stop doing all those things the doctor tells me not to do, but I don't think he understands, I do all of these things for you… _

They are dancing slower now, taking these small little steps as they circle through Louis' bedroom and Louis can feel himself floating in their secret ocean. Louis should ask Harry if he knows about it, their ocean, if he can feel it inside of his chest too. If it feels calming and irresistible to Harry too; if Harry also wants to drown in it. Harry's heart, the full moon, commanding the tides. Louis is about to ask when a metal clink sound comes from the floor. Harry's head doesn't even move, but Louis looks down immediately.

- 'Was that?

It's Louis manager name tag. The square piece of metal that only hours ago felt so perfect against Louis' hand, felt right. Now, though, looking at it from a distance, it feels like its weight has just left Louis and not only literally. What is he doing?

\- Nothing… nothing important.

Harry doesn't question him and they just keep dancing, slowly, in a rhythm only they can follow, and Louis shivers when he inevitably feels the cold metal against the sole of his feet. It feels wrong to step on it, disrespectful and insulting, sacrilegious, but it feels freeing somehow. Freeing, authentic and truthful. It hurts. Not only because Louis feels ungrateful, but simply from the pain of always wanting more; it's the pain of frustration, the weight of being forever unsatisfied. It's a weight that Louis knows, familiar, it's a pain he has dealt with before. It didn't get easier as the years passed, quite the opposite, but it still feels like the "lesser of two evils" logic. This pain is almost a friend to Louis by now, well-known, intimate and easily recognizable. It feels better - or, at least, less evil - than the thought of risking everything he has in some sort of pursuit of his delusional expectations of himself. This is something Louis knows, his familiar evil, his favorite enemy; there's no reason to go searching for more disappointment; no reason to fail at something that he really wants. Louis thinks it's almost ok if everything goes wrong with the life he's living now, the job, the town, because it isn't really his dream. The real problem, the thing that would truly destroy Louis, would be if he failed at what he wants. If he did follow his delusional-

\- Your dreams are valid, sweetheart.

And fuck Harry.

\- Do you understand that?

Louis can feel that Harry is about to stop their slow dance and Louis will go crazy if they do, if they do stop and Louis has to face all his life frustrations. As long as they keep dancing, Louis is safe. They are floating on a turquoise see, far away from here, in a place only they know of. They just have to keep following their tide.

\- Please, don't stop-

- I won't.

Harry kisses the top of Louis' head again.

- I won't.

It's not that Louis didn't know that by accepting the manager position, he was making a commitment, a promise of staying in this town, staying in this job. He knew he was, he just thought it was a commitment he could live with, a simple life that he could get used to; it's all he has ever known after all. Small town, small job, small everything. Louis doesn't understand why he has to face all his truths right now, suddenly. He doesn't know why the weight of staying here a second longer feels like it's about to crush him. Louis hasn't felt this way, this need for escapism, this need to simply leave, in a long time, ever since he packed his Bag - still packed, still good to go, hidden underneath his armchair - and ever since then, his life feels foggy, feels like a complete mess, a good kind of mess, sure, but it still doesn't feel his. Louis feels like he's simply existing through life.

\- Harry?

\- Hm?

\- Will you kiss me until I forget how terrified I am of everything wrong with my life?

\- Baby, that's not how-

- Harry-

\- There's nothing to be terrified of.

And now Harry's really, really wrong. More wrong than he usually is, which is saying something. Louis has all the reasons in the world to be terrified. He just came to the realization that he's going to spend the rest of his years living a life he doesn't want, a life he hates, and what's the difference between this and death? Isn't it just like dying? Louis just realized that he is dead. He can be terrified as much as he wants. Louis just realized that he is dead and that he won't be buried for another 70 years, he will just have to walk around like a zombie, feeling the pain and the failure of never trying, the weight of fear. Louis is forever condemned to hear the sound he hates more than any other thing in the world, his personal musical torture: the sound of his bones straining with all the lives he's not living. Louis will live and ignore his passion and that's his slow suicide. He will ignore what his heart pumps for and live the same day for 75 years and call it a life. He will do it all in an insignificant town, in an insignificant life, while there are 7 billion people on this planet who he hasn't met, 195 countries he has not visited. Louis will die without ever being touched by life. The untouched boy, inexperienced, the manager; the one who settled; the dead.

\- I think I'm gonna have to leave.

Harry takes a deep breath and then runs his nose on top of Louis' head. Louis can feel his chest expanding against Louis'. They are still close, still synced.

\- I know.

\- I'm gonna leave, aren't I?

Louis can't explain why he asks Harry in the first place, but Louis already did it once, on the same day he packed his Bag. Louis asked Harry "Why didn't I run away?" and Harry's only answer was a question: "Maybe I just needed you here a little longer?". It feels different now, somehow, because Louis isn't really asking, he's checking. His question is nothing but the realization that this is going to happen.

Louis' sob doesn't startle Harry, even if it sounds like Louis' soul is being ripped out of his lungs. Harry hugs him tighter and lets Louis understand, lets the information sink in. There are tears and hiccups and wet cotton shirts and it doesn't seem to be stopping any time soon. It's a painful cry, a terrified one. Louis has never been more scared in his life because there's no way he can do this alone and there's no way he can stay here a second longer. It's an agonizing impasse. Louis needs to go, he knows he does. He knows he will. He needs to travel, he needs to explore, he wants to study, he wants to work; he wants to make all the other universes that keep popping into his mind, true. Louis wants to make them happen, he wants to experience different realities; he wants to live. Louis wants to live. 80 years from now, during his final breaths, Louis will know that he tried, even if he failed on everything, he took a chance. Life touched him and it was worth it.

Bravery is a feature of the noblest and Louis would love to consider himself a brave boy, but he knows it's not that simple. It isn't. Louis' too scared to make the rest of his life happen, to make it start. There's no way Louis is going to make it by himself, if he's alone, it will only be a different kind of death and-

- I'll follow you across the universe.

Louis only cries harder because Harry is Louis' north star; always.

\- If you're afraid. If you want me to.

Louis nods desperately because he wants Harry more than life itself. He doesn't want not-to-be-alone simply, he wants not-to-be-alone with Harry. Louis knows where he belongs.

Their whole secret ocean is made out of Harry's sweet, sweet voice; saving Louis' life once again simply because Harry can't help to; Louis' life vest, Louis' moon. All the words Louis needs to hear in a golden platter all Louis' to take. Teary-eyed, Louis feels greedy. He will devour it, he knows, anything Harry gives him; for the rest of his life. Louis closes his eyes and tries to stop his crying, tries to focus on nothing but the sound of Harry's voice.

- I'll go with you. We can start over, start again, somewhere far away from here… Do you want me to?

Harry asks. He asks. Like he doesn't know, like he wants Louis to tell him. Louis will.

\- I told you this once already, Curly.

Harry snorts and judging by the sound, Louis can tell he's crying too.

\- I wanna do everything on earth with you.

Harry nods because he feels the same, the universe knows Harry does and Louis knows it too. The certainty is a knife to Louis' heart that burns in the most painful and delicious way. It's the pain of finding your soulmate and getting to spend the rest of eternity completely in sync with your loved one whose atoms were crafted only for you. It's the pain of loyalty, of the most beautiful commitment; it's the pain of love.

- It's a plan.

Louis nods back at him.

\- It's a plan.

Harry lowers his head to start pecking Louis' face, kissing away Louis' tears, and he sounds satisfied, delighted, absolutely pleased with their plan, because he starts talking too much, too fast; whispering sweet little nothings into Louis' ear like they are secrets and maybe they are. Louis wants him to shout them from the rooftops.

\- We're gonna leave, baby, we're gonna travel and I'm gonna love you in every city we go, gonna love you so much-

Louis wraps his arms around Harry's neck and gets on his tiptoes, lets Harry's words take away his tears, lets Harry make him breathe again.

- We're gonna do this right, Lou, gonna talk to your mom, yeah? Not gonna run away with an escape bag, Lou, what were you thinking? Gonna do this right, no goodbye letter-

Louis kisses him because Harry knows too much and because Louis wants to cry and he won't. He won't. Refuses to, even if it's a bittersweet cry from fear and longing. It's another universe in front of them. Louis can feel his whole future on the tip of his fingers, the rest of his life hanging from Harry's lips and it almost hurts again, explosive pixie dust on his bloodstream; sweet and sour; painful and lovely.

When Louis grabs Harry's hand and starts pulling him into bed, Louis' vision is still blurry from the tears and for a second, Louis can barely distinguish Harry's silhouette in the darkness of the bedroom. When Louis does find him again, though, Louis can see every single detail of Harry perfectly, it's almost like Harry is using the stars as his own private spotlight. Highlighted by the universe's infinite desire of creating something so beautiful ever again. As Louis admires everything he sees, Louis knows there's no way the universe could manage that one. All Louis sees are the wet plush lips, the strong eyebrows, the flared nose, the messy hair and the kind eyes. It looks a lot like Louis' future in every possible dream Louis can ever think of. Harry goes easily, always, always easy, and lays down immediately on top of Louis. Louis can feel all of Harry's body against his own, Harry's weight, the way Harry moves his thighs against Louis' because he's taking off his boots; Harry kisses on Louis' jaw.

It would be easy for Louis to create another universe for them, right here, right now. Eyes-closed, heartbeats synced, Harry could be a king and Louis his castle helper; they could fight for the title of team captain in a high school that doesn't exist; in another universe, Harry could be going to war or they could be bandmates or mortal enemies. Louis could create any possible universe in his mind and they would still fit together. Louis won't, though, not this time. He's too satisfied with the universe he's in. It's the best one.

Before Louis can understand how Harry even managed to do it, Louis is being surrounded by one of his soft blankets. Harry's shirtless, eyes the size of the galaxy illuminated by the weak street light coming from the open window.

\- It's our universe for tonight, yeah?

It's what Harry says before he begins whispering sweet nothings into Louis' ears again, sweet-talking Louis with plans for their future, promising Louis his eternal love, his eternal devotion. Harry sings silly little songs and doesn't stop kissing Louis for a second, kissing Louis until his lips burn. Harry's so pure when he's like this, taking care of Louis, so dirty and raw, that Louis doesn't remember to feel the usual embarrassment by his body; feels like a banal detail. In the most secret part of his mind, he knows what it is, even if he won't confess out loud: Harry makes him feel beautiful, worthy. Sometimes, when he's feeling bold, Louis even wants to put on a show for Harry, he's sure Harry would appreciate it. Maybe someday Louis will. They have all the time in the world and, for a love like this, there's no such thing as time.

Without realizing, between Harry' kisses, Louis mutters a "You make me feel like a young God". Harry answers immediately, as if Louis was making any sense.

\- That's 'cause that's what you are.

\- Oh yeah? Am I holy now?

Harry laughs while biting Louis' collarbones.

\- Always were. I even wrote a poem about it.

Harry says it between kisses and Louis can feel his heartbeat against his chest.

\- Gonna recite me some poetry in bed, Curly?

\- Gonna do everything you want me to.

Harry's sucking love bites into Louis' neck with no hurry whatsoever, taking his sweet time playing with the different shades of red he can bring to Louis' skin. Louis knows, by the sounds and moves that Harry is making that he could stay like this for a very long time, forever, even. Louis doesn't have forever, so Louis hurries him.

\- Start, then.

On his way to Louis' hip bones, Harry snorts loudly as if he ever expected anything different than this kind of behaviour from Louis and the air that comes out of Harry's nose tickles Louis' belly.

- It starts like this- Are you ready?

\- Of fucking course I'm-

\- Not gonna come just-

- I'm gonna kick you in the face, Harry, I swear.

\- Ok, it goes: the first time I called you holy was on a starless sky when you smelled like my perfume and you tasted like my tongue when you chanted profanities in your bed, a fallen angel preaching gospel to your most faithful believer.

Louis is in heaven. Harry continues.

\- I could feel your moans on my naked chest, echoing as a prayer into your bedroom walls, making this our godless universe. My fingers kissed hymns up your spine.

Louis is barely coherent anymore, he's aware, but Harry's reciting poetry for fuck's sake and Louis absolutely loves when Harry does it. If Louis also happens to love the way Harry's mouth keeps getting lower and lower on Louis' belly, between little bites and wet kisses, there's nothing to do with anything.

\- Can I go on?

Of course Harry asks, because he can sense Louis' distraction. Louis nods because he's a well-behaved boy like this.

\- I wasn’t corrupted, I think I ruined you and you said thank you, I think I ruined you and you said please and you still blushed the color of your filthy tongue because your sacrifice tasted profane when you’re this angel that makes love like a seraphim and there’s no passage on the bible that could have ever prepared me for the way you look wrapped up in your bed sheets, hiding you halo and saying your prayers between my thighs.

Louis screams. He isn't ashamed of it.

- I love you. I love you. I fucking love you!

Harry simply continues, after biting hard on Louis' hip bone and leaving open-mouthed kisses on Louis' rib cage, because he's a little shit.

- When you discovered my hips as an altar made for your devotion, you became an ancient god only I remember and your damnation was obscene and divine and on top of me, you fitted, you fitted, and I forgot every other word but your name and I can still taste your fingers between my teeth when I close my eyes and God, if you’re out there, thank you.

It sounds a lot like Harry's version of Louis' "Thank you, universe" and Louis wants to cry, for a completely different reason now, can feel the little droplets of water starting to appear on the corner of his closed-eyes, but instead Louis only thinks "You're like every dream I ever had come true" again and again.

Harry's whispering now, lips close to Louis' ears as he struggles out of his skinny jeans.

- When you sank to your knees, I knew no other angel could ever fell so sweetly, could never feel so tempting and I know it’s a blasphemy to slowly pluck your wings with my loving hands, with my filthy fingers, but you say thank you and I say please and you later tickle my belly with your lost feathers and that is like drinking the forbidden fruit’s juice and letting it dribble down your chin, this is swallowing purification, it’s a guiltless paradise.

Louis can feel all of Harry's skin against his own now and Harry's burning and so is Louis. They are on fire. Louis closes his eyes and lets them burn together.

\- We are this match made in heaven, baby, aren't we?

Louis nods, small tears still in his eyes, and Harry's still talking because when Harry gets like this, he simply won't stop, even when Louis begs him to. He will bite and he will kiss and he will lick and he will recite poetry to Louis until he wants to. When he gets like this, Harry takes what he wants.

- And I thank all the gods for the way I've always known how to hold your throat in one hand and your heart in the other and when you whisper in my ears how long you’ve been searching for the perfect place to worship, you get on your knees and I think you finally understand how it feels to be holy.

Louis feels holy, he does. Can feel his angels against his naked back. He's sacred and Harry's here to corrupt him. Louis is a holy sin Harry's about to commit. Louis is a lollipop Harry dropped into pixie dust, exploding and tingling, sweet and sour, before licking it clean. Louis is Harry's everything, Louis realizes with a closed-eyes smile, and when his bed starts moving in a rhythm only they know, nothing else matters but the way Harry runs his hands through Louis' body and when Harry whispers "Just want to eat you out until you shake" and bites into Louis' mouth a "Look at me while you cum", Louis is sure that of all the things his hands have held, Harry's the best by far.

❥


	6. The End

VI

THE END

December 1st

Once, back when Harry Styles was still allowed to attend his classes at high school, there had been this one Biology class which was entirely dedicated to the study of the Malayan pit viper. Whenever Harry tries to test his brain, check whether he still remembers anything that was taught to him when he was younger or if his mind simply corrupted all that knowledge as well as the rest of Harry's weak sanity, Harry thinks of the Malayan pit viper. Harry isn't sure why he holds on so tight to the details he remembers about the snake; he suspects it may be due to the fact that the Biology class represents one of Harry's final connections with the normal teenage life he never lived. Surrounded by his classmates, helped by a patient teacher, taking notes from the blackboard, Harry was part of the crowd; Harry wasn't the different one, the mentally ill kid that was forced to drop out of high school by his own parents with the help of a simple psychiatrist's diagnosis, haven't you heard? That Biology class offered Harry one of his last chances to be normal and maybe that's why Harry can recite the Malayan pit viper's characteristics as if he was the one teaching the class. Professor Harry Styles, herpetology doctor. This one pit viper, originally from Southeast Asia, Thailand to northern Malaysia and the island of Java, is extremely dangerous. Its correct name is Calloselasma rhodostoma and its bite obviously causes pain, severe swelling, bruising, and blistering. That's not the real problem. There are several specific effects which may include headache, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhoea, dizziness, collapse or convulsions. Local necrosis is also common, usually a moderate to a severe one. Yes, Harry remembers all of them, of course he does. That's how he tests his brain, that's how he checks if there's still a chance at a normal life in the future, reciting the effects of a viper's bite. Maybe Harry's already more distant to a normal life than he usually likes to admit. Still, what really matters is that Harry remembers all of the viper's bite effects, including the most important one: the effect of the Malayan pit viper's venom on blood. The snake's hemotoxin causes the blood to coagulate and inside the veins, it turns into a gelatine; a clump. When Harry closes his eyes, he can clearly imagine the way the once red blood will just keep getting thicker and thicker, pasty, a dense dark gelatine that won't be able to fit into the human body's little capillaries, causing a painful death. It must hurt, Harry thinks, or better yet, Harry knows, because that's what his teacher taught an almost-normal Harry back then. Harry can picture the pain, he can imagine how it must be to feel the viper's venom burning in your bloodstream before your veins start clogging. Harry can picture it all because that's how he feels when he wakes up. Bitten by a Malayan pit viper, suffering the effects of its bite; living its last moments of life. Harry doesn't move; he stays completely still and doesn't open his eyes, but he's awake. He's awake and he can feel his thick blood, a dark gelatine, trying to reach his heart and failing, can feel his veins clogging. Something is wrong because Harry's heartbeat just keeps pumping into its pasty, slow rhythm, sluggish, even when Harry can physically feel the pain everywhere on his body. Harry can almost hear his body whispering to him: " _Stop fighting, kid. Just let it go_ ". And the offer sounds quite tempting when faced with the agony of existing as if you have poison instead of blood flowing through your veins. If Harry's truly poisoned, not only his mind, but his body as well, is there even any reason to-

_Ohh wooaah Ohh wooaah Ohh wooaah_

_You know you love me, I know you care_

The alarm clock music startles Harry, but he still doesn't move, plans to just let it keep ringing until he no longer feels any pain, dead or immune. Less than two seconds after it starts, though, the music stops by itself and Harry is forced to open his eyes.

\- I love this song.

That's what a very calm, very tranquil-looking Richard Styles says to Harry, first thing in the morning. He's the one who turned off the alarm clock, then. Harry should thank him, but Harry won't. Harry can barely remember the last time Richard was here and Harry can see how much Richard's trying not to look like an outsider, trying not to look like a viper away from its normal habitat. Richard is sitting by the end of Harry's bed, keeping his two feet on the ground and resting his elbows into his knees. He's dressed in his usual work clothes, formal dark trousers and fancy light blue dress shirt, but he looks relaxed, too relaxed, in a way that makes Harry wonder whether Richard's just putting on a show, trying to calm Harry down with his own tranquility. It's very likely that's what is happening. Richard has done this before. Instead of calling him out on it, Harry would never, Harry chooses to see where this is going.

When Harry raises his eyes at Richard again, Harry does it painfully, slowly, still under the effects of a bite he never took, a bite he never received. Harry has a viper that doesn't exist wrapped around his neck. Richard, just like anyone else (a part of Harry's mind, the good part screams "Just like anyone else but Louis"), doesn't see the snake that's taking Harry's life away. No one can see its little body acting like a strong rope, choking Harry while biting his shoulders, his back, his cheeks, just for fun; a vampire keeping itself entertained with Harry's body. Harry's nothing but a helpless mouse already trapped inside the viper's stomach. Richard can't see any of that. Good for him, then. The visual is as pretty as the pain. Instead of looking worried, Richard is looking at Harry sweetly. A reverse shock-therapy is what he is going for. Harry can't remember the last time Richard smiled at him as kindly as he is smiling right now.

\- I used to play it when I was younger.

If Harry ever writes a book- Harry never will, though, no brain functional enough for that. But if someone ever writes a book about how hard Richard Styles tried to approach his son (only after the point where it was too late, Harry will remind the author), this should be an example. Richard just pretended to know Justin Bieber from when he was younger. Harry doesn't ask, neither does Harry correct him. It's utter bullshit and they both know it, but it's a bullshit that serves a purpose and Harry doesn't know which one purpose is that yet. Harry wishes he could write the book himself.

\- Good morning, dad.

Richard Styles nods like he's accepting Harry into his game; a viper greeting its mouse with a little squeeze on Harry's left feet.

\- Good morning, son.

Richard doesn't have the politeness of waiting for a second before asking:

\- Are you ok?

Harry's eyes are cold and he can't help it and he wonders if that's just another symptom of how dead he's inside, beyond saving.

\- Just woke up.

Richard Styles gives Harry a tight smile because the helpless mouse escaped the first bite.

\- I know, but before. Yesterday, the day before that… are you ok?

Harry will have to cut this conversation short because now his head is hurting as well and it's stronger than a migraine and that's probably only because the inexistent poison, real only to Harry's mind, has reached the capillaries of Harry's brain. Maybe a clot can make this whole pain stop, the sweet and dark thick gelatine of mercy.

\- Yes. I have to be at the bakery soon and-

\- About that, son.

Richard interrupts Harry and this is where Harry fails, this is where the viper gets the mouse; this is where Harry let himself be caught. There's not another word needed for Harry to know what this whole thing is about. His dad is about to keep him locked in again, hiding his shame from the world. Harry's a helpless mouse that doesn't die; a helpless mouse that is tortured alive in a snake den where he does not belong. Harry wishes he could get away from his father's sweet voice, but he can't. Harry closes his eyes and waits, afraid to hear what comes next.

\- I called in sick for you.

_ That's not what happened.  _

\- I thought it was a good idea-

_ Richard called your boss and told him you are going insane again. _

\- You seemed tired these last few days and I know you have music lessons today.

Harry is terrified because the whispers are here and Harry wants to explode his mind, he wants to perforate his eardrums with the pens he can't use for his writing anymore because the world isn't making sense and neither are Harry's thoughts. Instead, Harry nods because if he does it hard enough, maybe the viper will let him go.

\- And therapy.

Harry can't help noticing Richard's choice of words: therapy and not psychiatric evaluation. Virginia must have talked to him, then, before he entered Harry's bedroom. She must have said something along the lines of "Don't you scare our son, Rick, he's already too fragile" and Harry wonders if the pain he can feel inside his bones comes from a fragility that was imposed on him. Maybe it hurts because it shouldn't. Maybe it hurts because if Harry could try, he would escape the whispers on his own, he would survive the viper's poison. Maybe Harry's immune. That's a secret his mother would hide, nurturing Harry with condescendence, raising a mouse scared enough to ever leave her snake den. The bites hurt differently, but they all thicken Harry's blood in the same way. She takes away Harry's life with love, kind fangs biting in slowly (so the mouse won't run, so the mouse won't escape). Virginia Styles is a caged vampire whose dark wings were cut off by life itself; she only wants to ensure that her broken lineage stays just as caged as she is. It would be unfair to raise kids happier than you were; you'd be left alone with the viper you married, in an empty trap, drinking poison for dinner.

\- I figured it's already enough for one day, isn't it?

It's enough for a life, Harry thinks but doesn't say.

\- Sure, whatever you say, dad.

And Harry, the stupid, stupid mouse thought that was the right answer to keep his predator satisfied, but apparently it isn't because now there's more emotion on Richard's voice, fangs trying to come out to play with his favorite guinea pig.

\- No. Not whatever I say, Harry. I want to know if there's anything you're feeling…

Harry can feel the way his own eyes enlarge, but that must be another symptom of letting your life be controlled by someone else who isn't you; whether it's your family, whether it's your own brain.

\- We don't want to burden you with these appointments.

Richard shakes his head while looking down at Harry's bed because now it's the perfect time for fake-compassion.

\- I don't know if that's what you're feeling and are ashamed to tell us for some reason. You have to tell us, Harry.

For a second, Harry feels guilty for feeling glad that Richard called in sick for Harry at the bakery. Harry didn't want to go, anyway; he hasn't really been feeling like going anywhere lately. He would much rather stay in bed, eyes closed, feeling his skin stretching against his rib cage, breathing slowly; feeling the poison take over. Working at the bakery today would completely ruin his plans of simply experiencing the agony of existence.

_ Daddy always has to save you from your shit, hm? _

\- Everything's fine, dad.

Richard Styles nods, defeated, as if he somehow expected a different reaction from Harry. He's not that stupid, he raised Harry to be like this, he should have known better. You reap what you sow; if you happen to sow a poison made out of fear and shame, you will reap a broken little mouse unable to communicate, unable to ask for help. Not proud, but scared and lonely. Harry can understand why Richard's frustrated, it's hard to taste the consequences of your actions. Bitterly, Harry wonders what Chuck would think of him right now; Harry doesn't think he could live with the idea of having disappointed Chuck as well.

\- Don't forget about therapy, please.

- I won't.

Already standing up from Harry's bed, Richard goes in for one last bite:

\- If you need anything, wherever you are, you come back home. You know that. Ok? Safety protocol as always.

It's funny to think of their "Safety protocol" now because it's nothing but a grown-up version of the "Code red" Harry and Gemma came up with. It's useless. It means nothing but "Let me know if things are bad, so we can… do nothing". Harry knows how it is. "Safety Protocol" can be better translated into "If you feel like you're going insane, come home". That's what Richard is asking right now. If the little mouse starts hearing too many insects inside his brain, he must run home to the snakes. Harry wants to laugh because it's desperate and because it's funny.

Harry can feel the small smile blossoming on his face before he can stop it and as soon as Richard sees it, his expression gets even more worried than before. Richard stares at Harry's face, eyebrows furrowed, analyzing every single micro-expression Harry may show, until he reaches the bedroom door.

He steps one foot outside and before closing the door, Richard turns around:

\- I love you, Harry.

Harry can taste the viper's poison flooding the inside of his own mouth. He spits it all in his sink, as soon as Richard leaves, and hides the same three pills in the same glass jar. There's no time for any kind of poison today. The Malayan pit viper will have to wait.

❥

The first time Harry heard about Rapunzel, he was six years old and his curly hair was starting to get a bit longer than the usual boy length. Harry didn't care, he loved it, he was always shaking his head just to feel the way his curls would bounce against his forehead and cheeks. Some classmate or maybe some friend - Harry's pretty sure he had one of those back then - must have jokingly called Harry, Rapunzel, and that's how Harry came to learn about the story. He heard the most dramatic version first; the one where the Prince goes blind and Rapunzel gives birth to their twins alone in that tower. Young-Harry was completely baffled and couldn't understand why someone would write such a sad story, why people would come out with different ways to cause pain. With time, that feeling grew with Harry, who still hates sad stories, and it's grown-up version is something closer to "Isn't life already sad enough?". Even if Harry did like the "Tangled" movie better than the first Rapunzel version he ever heard, Harry still doesn't like the story. He hates the way he can picture Rapunzel all by herself, forever trapped into a tower no one visits but her captors. It's unfair and it's sad and isn't life already…? To think that Rapunzel's own father was the one who gave her life away just makes it worse.

When Rosa enters Harry's bedroom without knocking, Harry doesn't startle, but looking deep into her stern eyes, Harry wonders whether she's offended by Harry's thoughts, whether she can sense the way Harry thinks of her as the Rapunzel's witch. In a polite, hired-to-do-it way, obviously. Harry hopes she does; maybe the guilt will make her want to help Harry escape (it won't, Rosa would rather cut off Harry's hair, cut off Harry's wings, swallow the golden key, before opening the tower's locked door for him; but if Harry can't dream, what even is the point in the first place?).

\- Good morning, Mr. Styles.

The platter Rosa's carrying would be considered a fancy, an extravagant one in a four-star hotel. It's nothing like Harry's usual eggs and coffee, not part of his routine meals, then. That's just another sign of how bad things are; how bad they all think things are. Having breakfast in bed is, by itself, something that only happens when they believe Harry shouldn't leave even his bedroom, when they think the princess must stay locked inside the tower, abandoned. Apparently, abandoned with enough food so that she will last until the morning. On Rosa's platter, there are waffles and kiwis and bagels and yogurt and cream cheese and grapes and jelly. It's an absurd amount of breakfast food as if they are trying to compensate for the lack of love, "Please, take what we can give you", as if they believe that by giving these many options to Harry, his sick brain will get distracted and start working properly on things that matter. It's a funny thought to have. Choosing between kiwis and grapes; that's bound to keep the whispers away, how haven't Harry thought about this before? Stupid, stupid kid.

\- Morning, Rosa.

Rosa doesn't give Harry as much as a polite smile, only a short nod, and that says more about her mood than it does about Harry's. It's not Harry's fault if she's concerned, if she's having a bad day or something like that. Rosa should probably start working for Gemma, Harry thinks; no locked towers there, no lonely princesses, no blind helpers, no braids big enough to suffocate. _Maybe Louis is blind, maybe that's why he can't save you._ Rosa would be happier there; well, not happy per se, but at least she would comb her calluses fingers through the hair of a person she cares about. Harry knows how much Rosa hates watching over a defective princess. Harry won't apologize.

\- Your father asked me to check whether you're having a headache.

Do you still call it a headache if it hurts everywhere? Or does it come to a point where the pain is so vastly spread than you just say it hurts? "It hurts everywhere", Harry once told Louis. It's still true. It still hurts.

Harry still hasn't answered when Rosa starts speaking again and Harry worries about the amount of times he has done this before if Rosa's dealing so well with it lately. She's not even waiting for Harry's answers that will never come. Rosa's learning, Harry's proud of her. Every day, a better hired-captor, swallowing golden keys while Harry refuses to swallow his pills. They are a good team; the victim and the suspect; a mouse and just another snake.

\- In case you are-

Only then does Rosa place the breakfast platter on Harry's nightstand, on top of Harry's dream journal and Harry will try to pretend not to find it slightly disrespectful. Rosa would never place Richard's breakfast platter on top of his newspaper. It seems like Harry's things are the only ones who aren't taken seriously here. Harry wonders whether it comes from neglect or forgetfulness.

_ They don't even remember you exist. When they do, they wish you didn't. _

Harry raises his eyes up to Rosa's because he isn't sure where she was going with hers "In case you are...". Rosa's eyes aren't looking back at Harry, though, completely fixed on the breakfast platter and as Harry follows her line of sight he sees it. The emergency button. This one isn't white nor dark white nor blue; it's red, ruby red, and Harry thinks it's fitting. He calls it the emergency button because this one pill is only offered to Harry when Richard thinks Harry needs to be put down. This red pill right here is Richard’s tranquilizer gun aimed at a helpless mouse who just so happens to be his son. The pill makes Harry sleep and the offer is tempting. There's still almost eight hours until Harry has to meet Mr. Morrison, it's more than enough time to try and restart Harry's brain.

Rosa doesn't say anything else as she nods once more at Harry, in a way that sounds more appropriate as an army's greeting, and starts to leave his bedroom. Harry doesn't stop her. Instead, he takes a bite from the kiwi; because it's sour and he needs to feel something. Then, with his tongue tingling, Harry holds the red pills between his fingers. It could be filled with viper's poison, Harry wouldn't know. Harry never once resisted it; he wishes Rapunzel had one of these. Harry grabs the orange juice because it's been too long since he hasn't hurt his body with these chemicals - "You're body is not a temple" - and when the red pill scratches Harry's throat from the inside, it feels like broken glass like it always did, red shards made out of crystal sanity; a sanity your body can't produce, so you have to swallow, it's only fair that it hurts.

The first time Harry heard about Rapunzel, he was six years old. It was also at that young age that Harry first took an emergency pill, after experiencing an episode that his father couldn't understand; probably still can't. Harry sleeps now just like he did then: not immediately, but lulled into sleep by an ocean that isn't there, slowly and comfortably. It's dreamless sleep, so absolutely silent that no whisper can be heard.

❥

The second time Harry opens his eyes is better than the first, calmer, lazier, and that's enough to put a small smile on his face. A drowsy smile. He's feeling slow, sure, but slow is way better than fast-paced, better than accelerated. Harry gets himself out of bed, puts on some random comfortable clothes, eats a couple of grapes he left behind in the breakfast platter in the morning, and heads for the elevator. If it feels like everything is happening around him in slow motion, Harry won't complain, he will just observe, taking deep breaths while he does so. The elevator shakes and there's noise coming from the kitchen when Harry reaches the living room floor and that's where probably Rosa is. There's also a soft purring sound coming from the couch, but Harry only smiles at a sleepy Cat, choosing not to address any of the different house noises. Harry leaves through the front door without saying goodbye to anyone, but they will call him if they need him back at the tower. He takes Chuck's bicycle off of the wall rack and slowly makes his way to the condo's gate. There's a green light flash from the biometric reader and Harry's free. He starts pedalling in a lazy rhythm, heading to his music lesson. As he feels the warm wind against his cheeks, a caress from the universe, Harry starts singing, so low he's the only one who hears.

_Good feeling_

_Won't you stay with me just a little longer?_

_It always seems like you're leaving_

_When I need you here just a little longer_

Harry's feet move in the same rhythm of the song. It feels like a small moment of peace in the middle of a storm, in the center of a hurricane.

_Little voice says I'm going crazy_

_To see all my worlds disappear_

_Vague sketch of a fantasy_

_Laughing at the sunrise like he's been up all night_

Mr. Morrison’s music school is a short building painted moss green, with huge windows, behind a big, automatic gate. It's easy to spot it from a distance and as soon as Harry does, he slows down his pedalling even more. Reaching the gate, Harry climbs off his bicycle and locks it to a rack that wasn't there before Harry's classes started; Harry tried to thank Mr. Morrison more than once, but Mr. Morrison insisted that his other students also rode bicycles to his classes all the time. Harry has never seen one. After ensuring that the bike is safe, Harry heads to the gate and presses the intercom button. Mr. Morrison’s low voice takes less than a minute to sizzle through the speakers.

\- Harry?

- Yeah, it's me.

There's one small bip then and the gate unlocks, its door opening automatically. In the time it takes for Harry to step inside the gate and close its door, making sure it's locked, Mr. Morrison already reached the building's front door and is waiting for Harry with a big smile on his face. The first thing Harry likes about Mr. Morrison is how fitting his name is: Mr. Morrison looks exactly like a tamed-down version of Jim Morrison from The Doors. The both of them were born in Melbourne and Mr. Morrison, David Morrison, has the same piercing eyes and the same brown curly hair of his famous namesake. Most importantly, the two Morrison men share that same rebellious air, defying; even if Mr. Morrison won't let that part of him show as much as Harry would like him to.

As Harry starts making his way into a handshake with Mr. Morrison, one of the few people Harry won't mind holding his hand, Harry thinks about the second thing he likes about Mr. Morrison: his long hair. Harry knows it sounds silly, but Mr. Morrison's hair looks pretty similar to Harry's and he ends up giving Harry a chance to see how Harry's own hair would look if he let it grow. Harry loves it. Mr. Morrison looks like a happy Rapunzel. Harry wonders if that is how Harry would look with long hair too. Louis would probably call him a lion even more than he already does. Looking at Mr. Morrison's brown hair under the afternoon orange sunlight, a second before greeting him with a firm handshake, Harry smiles.

\- Harry Styles!

\- Hey, Mr. Morrison.

\- One day, you will call me David.

Mr. Morrison says that once in a while, for Harry to call him David, but Harry suspect Mr. Morrison likes the way Harry calls him Mr., judging by the small smile that always stays a bit longer on Mr. Morrison's face whenever Harry does it. Harry knows he's the only one of Mr. Morrison's students that calls him Mr. Morrison and Harry thinks it gives Mr. Morrison more authority than he's used to having. Harry thinks Mr. Morrison secretly enjoys it. Having said that, Harry also wonders if he's completely misreading the situation and simply being a stubborn Rosa who won't call Harry anything other than Mr. Styles, even when Harry really wants her to. Still, it sounds disrespectful to call Mr. Morrison, David, and Harry only does that in his mind sometimes and only when his thinking about Mr. Morrison's musical skills. It's Harry's honest opinion that Mr. Morrison could make real success in the music world if he wanted to; a mix between David Bowie and Jim Morrison and maybe if Harry had half the talent Mr. Morrison does and was named Jim Bowie instead of Harry Styles, maybe they could start a duet. Harry would probably ruin the whole thing, though.

It's not that Harry doesn't love music, because he does. He's obsessed with it. It's the soul of the universe, in his opinion, it's just like healing. Lyrics and melodies and drums; all different galaxies Harry could drown himself into. Every song is a different book, a different story; a different life. Music has let him escape. It's the only reason Harry has ever made this far, it really is; music has kept him alive. Harry's a Nietzsche follower: without music, life would be a mistake and that's it. This sacred gift, so vital, so special, should be left in the hands of those who are lucky enough to know how to manipulate it, to embroider it into beauty. Harry's not that lucky so he simply doesn't want to get in the way. Let music for the ones who know how to mold emotion. No famous duet with Mr. Morrison, then.

Even if Harry is certain of Mr. Morrison's talent, sure that Mr. Morrison could be living a way more glamorous life than the one he does, Mr. Morrison doesn't seem frustrated at all. He looks happy with what he does: even if that's nothing but teaching young rich kids, spoiled as hell, how to play a couple of instruments because their parents want them to. In his music school, Mr. Morrison looks satisfied, happy with the life he chose for himself. Harry wishes he felt the same way; wishes he had that same sense of tranquility in his chest instead of the tumultuous anxiety Harry learned to breathe through. Mr. Morrison's calm must taste as good as music feels.

With a hand on the center of Harry's back, Mr. Morrison guides them to the same square-shaped classroom they always use: the charming one, walls moss green, filled with a series of different instruments. They only use the guitar, though, Mr. Morrison and Harry, and that's the first thing Mr. Morrison grabs as they enter the room. Mr. Morrison hands the guitar to Harry and sits on a dark wood chair in front of Harry's usual one.

\- So, Harry-

_I want to break free_

_I want to break free_

_I want to break free from your lies_

_You're so self-satisfied I don't need you_

Mr. Morrison starts patting his front pocket, looking at Harry with an apologetic face while he tries to pick up his phone that won't stop ringing.

_I've got to break free_

_God knows,_

_God knows I want to break free_

\- Sorry, sorry. - Mr. Morrison says while he looks at the caller id - I really need to take this one, Harry. It'll be just a second.

\- No worries, Mr. Morrison. Go ahead.

Mr. Morrison takes a deep breath and nods once before speaking into his phone.

\- Hey, Liz.

Harry keeps his eyes fixed on the ground, trying not to invade Mr. Morrison's privacy the best he can. Breathing slowly, Harry tries to pretend he doesn't exist.

Mr. Morrison sounds sad.

\- Oh. Oh, ok. Do you want me to-

From the corner of his eye, Harry can see Mr. Morrison looking up, straight to Harry's face and then looking at the floor again. When Mr. Morrison speaks, his voice is lower than before:

\- Do you want me to call Dr. Landry?

Mr. Morrison nods.

\- Ok, just keep me posted, yeah, Liz? Ok, ok. Bye.

Mr. Morrison ends his call and when he smiles at Harry, it's a sad smile.

\- Sorry, Harry. That was my sister, ahm… My mom's going through chemo and she has these complications sometimes.

Harry nods because Harry knows how it is. He truly does. As much as Virginia - and Chuck himself - tried to keep Harry as far away as possible from the whole thing, Harry knows his fair share about cancer complications. On some nights, when Harry closes his eyes, he can still feel the acid smell from one specific vomit session Chuck had; stuffy and warm. A smell that never really left his nostrils.

- If you need to leave, Mr. Morrison, I won't mind at all, I-

\- No, no, it's ok, Harry, thank you. I… Wow, sorry about this.

Harry isn't sure what makes him say it, where the impulse comes from, but it feels like a wish to leave something behind, to mark the universe with his existence somehow. Harry knows he's not making sense, but he thinks that maybe, if he never sees Mr. Morrison again, they will forever have shared this moment. Harry doesn't ever speak about this topic with strangers, but before he can hold himself, the words are leaving his mouth, marking the universe.

\- My uncle- Hm… I know how it is.

\- Oh! And how's he-

Mr. Morrison must see something on Harry's eyes, must identify this specific kind of pain, because he cuts his sentence short and what he says instead is:

\- I'm sorry.

- It's ok, it's been a while now…

\- But it's never really ok, is it?

The two of them share a short silence, a small scar in the Cosmos if Harry's not here to see how it all turns out, how the whole world ends.

- I'm sure your mom will recover, David.

That's what makes Mr. Morrison look up, smiling at Harry with his thankful smile.

- I know how much she loves hearing your songs on Sunday lunches.

Now, Mr. Morrison laughs. Harry's glad. There's always this warm feeling in Harry's chest whenever he manages to take away another person's pain, doesn't matter how temporary it is; it's enough even if it's only for a second. Harry hasn't done it for a while now, make someone smile through their pain, and he had almost forgotten how good it feels, how warm. There must be a song about that; music is the outburst of the soul and Mr. Morrison's laugh outbursts Harry's soul a little.

\- I should have never told you that.

- You even showed me a video!

Mr. Morrison laughs again and his tranquility is almost visible now. Good. Harry can appreciate it even when he can't be contaminated by it, doesn't matter how much he tries. It's the virus of peacefulness, of serenity. Harry's immune.

\- Oh my God, I just wanted to show you my signed guitar!

\- You were so lucky, Mr. Morrison. Black Francis AND Kim Deal.

\- Well, the things you've gotta do for the Pixies.

\- All I'm saying, pretty baby: la la love you, don't mean maybe…

Harry singsongs a bit just because he feels like he needs to. It's a small verse, nothing but a sentence, but, not for the first time, Mr. Morrison looks at Harry with a complete serious expression as if he was watching a great performance. Mr. Morrison always does this, whenever Harry sings; treats like it's something spectacular. Harry always gets embarrassed when he sings without realizing, especially with Mr. Morrison looking at him this way.

\- I'm gonna say this again. You should sing, Harry.

Harry laughs.

\- I mean it.

\- In some other life, Mr. Morrison.

\- Yeah, who knows, right? In another universe, you could be out there, rocking stadiums, the new Mick Jagger or something.

Harry snorts.

- I'd probably end up in a boy band.

Mr. Morrison nods like it's a thought to be taken into consideration.

\- The new Beatles, then.

Harry laughs again.

\- Now, stop stalling me. We were practicing The Smiths, yeah?

Mr. Morrison asks while he starts standing up from his chair, grabbing a guitar for himself - the dark blue one he always chooses - and returning to his seat in front of Harry's.

- Mr. Morrison, I've been practicing-

\- That's all I ask for, Harry.

\- But I… I kind of changed the lyrics.

As Mr. Morrison raises his eyebrows at him, Harry decides to keep talking.

- I didn't mean no offense to The Smiths-

\- No, no, Harry, this is great. Creativity! Always! It's like I told you before, just let the words and the sounds flow through you.

- I think I just needed them to make sense in my head.

\- Let's hear it then, shall we? Are you ready?

Harry's suddenly nervous, but he nods anyway. Holding the guitar on his lap, he runs his fingers through the strings.

_ Take me out tonight  _

_ Take me to my Refuge where my heart’s a beehive  _

_ Poetry in your bar  _

_ I never, never want to go home  _

_ Because I’d sleep better  _

_ On your floor  _

_ Take me out tonight  _

_ I don’t wanna see people, I’ll meet you in the afterlife  _

_ Your kiss just healed my scar  _

_ Oh, please don't drop me home  _

_ Too many pills, too much silence, and it’s you that I adore _

_ And there’s no killer bus  _

_ There is nothing but us  _

_ To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die  _

_ And there’s no killer truck _

_ It’s just the two of us_

_ To die by your side _

_ Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine _

_ Take me out tonight  _

_ Take me anywhere, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care _

_ And I’m not an enthusiast, but I thought oh God, you came to me so fast _

_ But there’s not enough sanity and there goes my mask _

_ And there’s no killer truck _

_ It’s just the two of us  _

_ To die by your side  _

_ Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine  _

_ There is a light and it never goes out _

_ You are my light that never goes out_

_ There is a light and it never goes out_

_ You are my light that never goes out _

As soon as the song is over, the first feeling that floods Harry's chest is the sensation of silence. Permanent silence. Harry feels like he will never speak again; as if all his words have already been said through the lyrics. The second feeling, stronger and blinding, is choking. Harry feels like he can't breathe, suffocating on unsaid words.

All Harry can hear is Mr. Morrison's clapping.

\- I'm glad I get to hear them, Harry. They are great, really.

Mr. Morrison hasn't noticed it yet, the way Harry's struggling to breathe.

\- Are they inspired by personal experiences?

Harry's throat squeezes around itself when Harry realizes that there's no way he will ever manage to answer Mr. Morrison's question; Harry wouldn't know whether he's lying or not. It may be the beauty of insanity if it was ever pretty and not only rotten; random bursts of inspiration; not knowing what you lived and what you dreamed. Not knowing what's real. The truth is that Harry has no idea where the lyrics came from, but he can feel them pulsing in his veins with the strength of a life he never lived. Harry feels crazy.

\- Harry, are you ok?

Mr. Morrison sounds worried.

_ You're scaring him, crazy boy. _

Harry swallows all the saliva collecting inside his mouth and tries to breathe. Swallow and breathe. Breathe and swallow. It makes no difference. There's still a cotton ball stuck in his throat, tasting both like medicine and death. When Harry realizes that he has been stretching the silence for too long without managing to make a sound, without managing to say anything that will calm Mr. Morrison down, Harry starts coughing. Hard.

Mr. Morrison's eyes widen and he immediately heads to the drinking fountain outside the classroom, grabbing Harry a glass of water. Harry drinks it slowly, stalling, creating time for him to recover; trying to get the taste of rot out of his mouth.

\- Sorry, I choked.

Mr. Morrison laughs, relieved now.

\- First show adrenaline. It happens to the best of us.

Harry laughs until the world feels a bit more real.

The rest of Harry's class is pretty uneventful, following its usual routine. They both talk about unimportant matters, share song recommendations while Mr. Morrison teaches Harry a couple more chords. Harry plays his version of The Smiths' lyrics one more time. The second time is even worse than the first. Mr. Morrison claps just the same.

❥

The breeze is warm outside of Mr. Morrison's building, ruffling Harry's curls tenderly. Harry sometimes likes to think the wind takes care of him somehow, when he can't take care of himself. Harry hopes it's true. The wind's caress feels good and almost calming. Releasing his bicycle from Mr. Morrison's rack, Harry decides that it's a nice weather after all. It feels more comfortable than it has for a while. Warm and fresh, reminding Harry of a life he hasn't lived.

Just as Harry is about to climb on his bicycle, he feels a vibrating sensation against his right thigh. After the third night in a row that Virginia Styles forgot to take away Harry's phone from his bedroom, Harry decided to start secretly taking it everywhere with him. Supposedly, Harry's parents forbid Harry from using the phone during the day, which Harry found an appropriate rule in the beginning, considering what happened that one time, years ago, and they only allowed Harry one supervised hour of cellphone use per day. Virginia must have forgotten about the rule a couple of times too many and Harry took advantage of it. He isn't proud, but it's not a big deal; it's usually what happens when parents get way too strict. Unreasonably so. It's only fair for the child to start keeping secrets. _You sure have been keeping a lot of secrets lately._ Sometimes freedom has to be earned, it has to be stolen.

When Harry takes his phone out of his pocket and looks at the screen, there's one unread message. It's Louis', because of course it is.

\- hey , wanna come over and nap??

- Hey, Lou. I'm actually just leaving Mr. Morrison's class. x

- okk, so wanna come over and ruin some songs for our future selves by attaching eventually painful memories to them???

- Louis…

\- wanna come over and face the uncertainty of the future with sadness in our hearts and tears in our eyes???

- I'm sorry. I'm not in a good mood. x

\- wanna see you, tho :(((

\- I'm heading to The Refuge in 5 minutes. I'll see you there?

- you know it, curlyy

Harry doesn't really notice when he starts pedalling again. He blinks his eyes slowly, as if his mind and his body are following different paces, coexisting only by chance and not by fate in the same boy. Harry pictures each one of them, his body and his mind, as different rivers, as two different oceans who will never touch, waters that will never mix. It feels like each one of them is tied up to a different moon, each moon commanding their moves in opposite ways, to different directions. Unsynchronized. Harry's body is this shallow ocean and his mind is this oil wave, greasy and slippery. Water and oil. Harry feels wrong, still does, but he tries really hard not to.

With the warm breeze caressing his skin again, Harry pedals, trying to make his existence make some sort of sense, trying to mix water and oil. The streets ahead of him are almost as empty as his whole world feels.

❥

Harry's been sitting on the comfy grass from The Refuge, surrounded by its fresh smell, for a couple of minutes now. He can feel the fluffy earth against his legs, against the open palms of his hands, can feel the little plants tickling the skin in between his open fingers while he admires the lonely view, birds and butterflies allowing him the privilege. Harry is leaning against one oak tree he particularly liked when he was younger - "Looks like that Pocahontas tree, Chuck!" - trying to become part of the nature, mold himself to it, disappear in its infinity. He would become nothing but a special flower who just happened to be born a bit sicker than the rest of them, than the rest of everything else; Harry can be a beautiful pinky tingy. Maybe then, everything would hurt less.

That's Harry's last coherent thought before he hears a crunchy sound coming from behind him. Harry immediately turns around, not scared, but curious, only to find the person he already knew would be there: Louis, walking slowly but determined, taking his time making his way to Harry; testing Harry's heart by taking too long to get close enough. A tease. Louis is looking straight at the ground, concentrating to step only on the noisiest dead leaves. Looking at him, even from a distance, Harry feels like his own eyes can finally relax; it feels a lot like arriving home after a long day and meeting nothing but love inside those four walls. Harry wishes he could have that with Louis someday. Looking at Louis after this long day feels like breathing again.

Louis looks like a mischievous cat, lithe and agile, exploring the woods for the first time, carefully selecting where to place its paws, trying to cause some trouble. It's endearing. Harry feels this burning urge of just letting Louis do whatever he wants to; if Louis so happens to burn the world down, Harry's sure Louis will look lovely giggling after he's done. It's a sacrifice Harry's willing to make.

The lack of mutual eye-contact gives Harry enough time to let his greedy eyes dance through Louis' cinnamon hair, almost caramel under the indirect sunlight. Louis' fringe is moving with the wind and with the rhythm of Louis' loud steps and Harry compares it to the most special curtain, the luckiest one, in the most luxurious museum to never exist: Louis' fringe is nothing but a heavy curtain protecting his beauty from the world; Louis' face, the protected masterpiece. Harry's in awe every time he sees Louis and by now, he considers it a natural reaction. The one thing that makes Harry's mind and body agree; Louis is the only thing that can mix water and oil. Harry tries not to let himself get lost in thoughts like this one, he would just keep going too far, beyond the point of return, and he knows how dangerous it is, but Louis is sticking his pink tongue out every time he takes a bigger step and Harry can already smell him, sweet as vanilla. It's irresistible, it's grounding while it simultaneously takes Harry out for the flight of his life. Louis keeps him grounded, but lets him fly. Louis is Harry's north star. Sometimes, Harry simply cannot resist letting his mind appreciate this, this thing they have, the way Louis looks, even if Harry still feels guilty for doing so. It feels like corrupting something perfect, ruining a perfect ocean with a single oil drop. Harry shakes his head until the thought goes away. Feeling Harry's eyes on him, Louis almost slips on a pointy rock and then he laughs loudly, happy and embarrassed, and Harry thinks love is too weak a word for the way he feels.

The certainty of the feeling, the eternal burning of it, is immediately replaced with the uncontrollable urge to stop looking at Louis, Harry's mind combusting over that same old idea that Louis is nothing but an evil mermaid, tricking Harry into drowning in greasy waters. When Harry swallows, he can only taste the painful wish to go blind, the necessity to burn his eyes until he can't see the sunlight Louis emanates from his smile. There's no way Harry could make himself look away from Louis, not like this, not never. Harry feels like Icarus. He loves the sun too much, too close. Resisting the impulse of squeezing his eyes shut, Harry silently makes a pact: he gives away his soul to the devil in exchange for the privilege of admiring Louis for a second longer without ruining anything with his greasy thoughts. Harry's sure the devil understands where Harry is coming from; if the devil could ever get close to something as beautiful as Louis, as pure, he would get to his knees and repent. Harry understands, especially when Harry's heart is already beating to the tune of the mermaid's singing. Fascinated. Captured. There's really no escape for him. Soulless, Harry lets his eyes wander, takes all the time he can get before Louis realizes he's being admired and starts protesting.

Louis looks healthier, Harry notices, and that's all that matters. Louis' figure is a little curvier, his thighs fuller, his pink cheeks even prettier. He looks as perfect as he always does, sure, but he looks healthier and that's the point. That's what is important. Right now, the fact feels like it's the only thing Harry will ever need to know, the only thing worth worrying about: that Louis is healthy; well; happy (even if Harry isn't and especially if Harry isn't). All of Harry's other needs and wants, desires and urgencies, concentrate on this one right here, right now: ensuring that Louis is ok. Again, this urge to stain the universe, to contribute to the infinite chaos of possibilities blossoms into Harry's chest. If Harry never sees Louis again, and the thought is a knife into Harry's heart, they had this, this small Cosmos where Louis is healthy and happy and well. It's more than enough for Harry, is everything that truly matters.

\- See? I don't even sweat on my way up here anymore!

Louis says with his breathing slightly faster than his normal pace, breathing through his mouth and not his nose, but he isn't lying; Louis really isn't sweating.

\- Is that so?

Harry can swear there's nothing different about the way he answers Louis. Harry uses the same tone he always does, his voice is stable, a bit low, as it always is, and it's such a short sentence that Harry says that there would be nothing different to be noticed at all and even if it did, no one would notice. Still, Louis raises his head in the same second, eyes immediately concerned, eyebrows furrowed as if he knows there's something wrong. Louis won't mention it, but he knows. Maybe, the ones that don't notice Harry's mood swings, Harry's difficulties, are the ones who don't care about it in the first place, don't care about him; uninterested vipers surrounding Harry's emotions.

\- Can't you notice, Curly? I'm plenty fit now.

Ok. They are back to Louis' physical condition. This is good. Harry loves Louis for never confronting him, never asking for more than Harry can give each time, just letting Harry take his time. Someday, Harry will thank him for it in more ways than he can picture right now.

\- Why are you even saying this, Lou?

Harry asks it while he stands up. Louis offers him a hand, but Harry is already up when he sees it and ends up not taking it. Louis doesn't complain, simply puts his hand back by the side of his waist. On the same eye level now, Louis is looking at Harry with a question in his pretty blue eyes, the bluest ones Harry has ever seen, cerulean in this light. Louis' eyes search Harry's face, wondering if Harry's mocking him or if Harry's confused; that's how Louis calls it, "confused"; "lost for a bit". There aren't enough words in the english language for Harry to describe the way he feels about the boy in front of him.

- Because I started exercising…?

It's like blinking stardust, letting it fall from his eyelashes. Harry can almost feel the way his own eyes are shining because it stings against his eyelids and Harry wants to cry. This feels like the best news he received in a long time, feels like hope. It sounds sweet coming from Louis' mouth, it's a promise. Harry knows Louis has been getting better at his eating habits for a while now, trying harder every day, and if Louis is also exercising now, it means that he is taking more care of his little body, just like Harry begged him to. Hearing Louis say it, feels like leaving a mark in the universe as small as Louis' smile, as pretty as his eyes.

\- You started exercising?

Harry isn't embarrassed by the way he can taste the wonder in his voice. If Harry's life is nothing but a wreckage, it feels good to know that Louis will float; it's vital to know that Louis will save himself. That's what Louis is offering Harry right now: a promise that he will be fine regardless of Harry's condition. It's a life vest.

\- I told you this already! I even do squats now, so my ass matches my sass.

Harry laughs - laughs! - because maybe Louis can make everything better, after all.

\- You are beautiful, you know?

Louis is close enough now to be hugged, so that's what Harry does; can't resist not doing it for even a second longer. Too impatient; too eager. The touch of Louis' skin against Harry's feels like running his fingers through the sand of a desert island only they know; the untouched sand, pure and theirs, mixing with the salty water, taking away their sadness in their waves; washing away the pain, letting them heal under the sunlight. Harry places his hands on the small of Louis' back, that looks small against Harry's fingers, and then on Louis' shoulders, squeezing for a bit just because Harry can, and lastly, on Louis' slim waist. While Harry does it, he brings his lips to Louis' ear. Harry whispers:

- Your hips could move mountains.

\- Yeah, but my goals are to be so intimidatingly hot that people are surprised at how nice I am when I talk to them.

- But you aren't nice.

\- Harold!

Louis tugs on Harry's hair a little, but it doesn't hurt. It feels like a kiss.

\- But you are pretty. Very pretty.

Harry immediately corrects himself because an angry Louis is a loud Louis and Harry can't risk having another headache, even if Louis' voice has never caused that particular effect on Harry, regardless of its volume or its intensity. Even when it gets angry or shrill or simply too loud to be understandable, Louis' voice is still a melody to Harry's ears, a sound Harry gets the pleasure of admiring; the sound Harry's body will always react to, even if he goes deaf. It's the sound of Harry's silence.

\- I don't want to look “pretty”, Harold, I want to look otherworldly and vaguely threatening.

Louis rolls his eyes as if Harry is stupid because Louis gets disrespectful as easily as that.

\- You already do.

Louis snorts into Harry's shoulder. It tickles.

\- That's how you look to me. Otherworldly, vaguely threatening and pretty. Always pretty, Lou.

Louis nods as if he's satisfied with Harry's answer and Harry hopes he is; otherwise, Harry can keep talking for an eternity. Then, Louis untangles himself from Harry's arms and holds only one of Harry's hands with both of his smaller ones. Slowly, Louis starts pulling Harry to the glare and, more specifically, to the flower-bed Louis likes so much. "Never have I seen anyone look more beautiful or more at home amongst a thousand flowers". Harry likes it too; it's always a pleasure to see Louis as a flower prince, surrounded by petals as pretty as him.

\- Are you trying to get in my pants? 

Harry stops breathing for a second because he can't bring himself to even entertain the thought, to even think about something as magical as making love to Louis. Harry's sure his mind would simply combust, giving up its existence, melting into an ocean of hot lava coming from Harry's most burning desires. When everything's over and the supernova has exploded, even the smoke coming from the ashes of the disaster would smell like love, Harry's sure of it. Their ashes would be glitter, their souls would be shadows in space- Harry knows how strong his cravings are when it comes to Louis. Burning lava; the birth of a supernova. Harry can't think about it, especially not now, when nothing else in the world makes sense but the way Louis holds his hand tight.

In lack of an answer, Louis keeps talking casually like he knows that's exactly what Harry needs him to do.

\- Tell me about your day, then.

\- Don't wanna.

\- Tell me about your day, what the fuck?

Louis does his little thing before jumping into the flower-bed, a flamboyant little jump preparation that makes Harry smile no matter how many times Louis has done it before. He's doing it now and Harry's smiling and the universe isn't quite right yet, but maybe it can be. Louis' jump this one time is the best he has done so far, the exact copy of every little jump before that one. After Louis is already lying on their colorful bed made out of petals, hands behind his head, beautiful pinky thingy tangled all over his hair, looking relaxed and perfect, he looks at Harry with an invitation in his eyes. Harry knows Louis is waiting for him to jump, but it isn't only this. It's not only an invitation to jump, it's an invitation to everything. Louis' eyes are screaming:

\- Let me love you, you dick.

Harry jumps because he will never deny Louis anything. Laying down beside Louis feels a lot like the rest of a life Harry wishes he would live. It would make this mess worth it, it would make his years count. "Make my chaos matter", Harry thinks, but doesn't say, even if he knows that Louis would understand every idea behind the feeling; even if Harry knows that Louis could make him matter. A life by Louis' side wouldn't feel like swallowing poison like this one does, Harry's sure of it. It would feel like one of those powder-lollipops, sweet and sour, exploding and tingling all around Harry's mouth and inside Harry's veins, always surprising, always amazing. Harry never tried one of those, still he knows that's how they would feel against Harry's tongue; they would feel like a life spent with Louis. As they would grow old, they would make the world make sense to each other; they would keep getting better at it. Magic. This sort of thing can't be explained. It would be a life worth living, it would be a life saved. Harry's heart screams at him "It would be a life surrounded by pixie dust" and Harry doesn't know where the thought came from, but it's so strong he feels like he's levitating for a while.

Feeling the different petals tangling themselves into his hair, Harry tries to answer Louis' question. To do that, Harry chooses not to start where most people would; he doesn't begin at the beginning, with the ringing of his alarm clock. Harry ignores the fact that his father pretended to know - and to like - Justin Bieber's "Baby" just so he could tell Harry that Harry wasn't going to work today. No. That's not where Harry starts because these aren't the important parts, those are just facts and he and Louis don't need facts. They only need feelings and important details no one else knows. Harry also doesn't start his answer chronologically because time's just a fuzzy detail for the two of them, if it even exists at all.

\- Midnight was terrible yesterday.

Louis' hand finds Harry's fingers in the middle of mountains of petals and Louis' skin is somehow softer than all of them combined. There's this one specific flower, only half a petal, light pink with stains of white, balancing itself on top of one of Louis' fingers that looks exactly like a ring. A beautiful flower ring against Louis' skin. Harry closes his eyes instead of letting his mind wander to promises he can't make yet.

\- Why?

- Felt like I was drowning and no one could see the water but me.

Harry doesn't think he has ever managed to explain a feeling so succinctly before, so accurately. That's exactly how Harry feels, drowning in a water that isn't there in the first place. Choking on nothing but his own mind; swallowing imaginary grease. _Still drowning._ It's a shame Harry can only be this clear about the images that appear in his head when he's alone with Louis; what Harry just said sounds exactly the type of thing Harry should be telling Dr. Mills and-

- But the fact that you can feel the water should be enough, Curly.

\- The fact that I see things that aren't there-

\- 'S not about that. It's not.

From the corner of his eyes, Harry can see the tip of Louis' button nose, small and delicate, pointing at the sky. The pink of Louis' cheeks match a couple of different petals around them. Harry's flower prince. With their ears almost touching, Harry turns his head to the sky as well, imitating Louis' position, and Harry's eyes meet the treetops, all of them full, the most beautiful umbrellas, a rainbow made out of all the different shades of green. In the distance, Harry can hear the chirping of the birds; can hear Louis' heartbeat close enough to touch. It's a sound bubble that belongs only to the two of them. Feeling the constant rising and falling of his own chest, Harry lets himself appreciate the fact that the two of them belong together, doesn't matter where they are going now. One day, they will share the future Harry planned for them. Harry will hold on to this idea like a secret life vest, a promise keeping Harry alive like a Light- like a lighthouse. Like a lighthouse, guiding Harry to earth. A north star.

\- If you can see the water, the water exists for you and that makes the water real.

Harry closes his eyes and listens, takes it all in; birds chirping; Louis' heartbeat; Louis' words.

- We have to think about the water as a real thing, then. And we have to deal with it as if it was real because for you it is and that's enough.

Louis' fingers squeeze Harry's and it feels like a kiss again.

\- We have to make sure you don't drown.

Whenever they have their serious conversations, Harry is reminded about how much he loves the way Louis always says "we" and not just "you" when he talks about Harry's issues, about Harry's condition. It makes Harry feel like Louis will always be there, for everything. It makes Harry feel less alone. Harry's still looking at the treetops and the chirping birds start getting closer and as two birds fly over their flower-bed, dancing together in the wind and chirping loudly, Harry thinks they are just a different version of Harry and Louis; two love birds in a different universe. Always together.

\- I did think about you at midnight yesterday.

\- Oh, yeah?

\- Yeah and also always.

Harry's small smile is thankful and fascinated, he doesn't think the feeling will ever go away. The same usual move of Harry laying on his side, head on Louis' chest, is almost automatic for the two of them by now. Louis waits with his arms wide open until Harry's comfortable. With his ear pressed to Louis' chest, Harry can hear Louis' heartbeat pulsing and it's hard to tell whether it's coming from Harry's own chest. Harry wants so deeply to believe that they are sync. They have to be, he tells himself, otherwise nothing else really matters.

Louis pulls Harry harder into his chest and starts combing his fingers through Harry's curls, curling his small fingers in Harry's hair. Louis is uninterruptedly murmuring: "Curly, curly, curly" and that's enough cuteness for Harry. In one single move, Harry reassigns their position, moving the two of them around in a way that ends up with Louis lying on Harry's chest. Perfect.

\- You are like sunshine in human form, aren't you?

Louis looks up at Harry, starry eyes swimming with different constellations, and Harry will never be in love again; he simply knows.

- Thought I was your north star.

Harry laughs because Louis just needs to make everything more difficult than it has to be. Harry will let him, always will.

\- You're my everything, yeah.

Louis doesn't answer. Instead, he just makes himself more comfortable into Harry's chest; a sleepy cat preparing himself for his afternoon nap.

In the silence, Harry thinks about what Mr. Morrison told him early today. Even if Harry doesn't really believe him, Harry tries to, pretends Mr. Morrison's words are real even if only for a second. Harry tries to take in every detail before starting: he can almost taste the little bubble he and Louis created inside his own mouth; the smell of tangerine and vanilla; the freshness of the grass; the chirping of the birds and the sound of their wings clapping against the wind; the sound of the wind. Harry prepares his throat, no coughing, and sings loudly:

_ Should this be the last thing I see  _

_ I want you to know it's enough for me  _

_ 'Cause all that you are is all that I'll ever need _

_ I'm so in love _

The effort Harry puts into his lungs raises Louis' whole body and Louis begins raising and falling according to Harry's breathing. It's a wonderful sight. Harry can't see Louis' smile when he sings, but he can feel it inside his chest and it's more than enough, it's better.

After Harry finishes, the silence is deafening and Louis takes a deep breath before speaking. When he does, he sounds pained. Pained and relieved. It's the pain of love; it's the pain of finding your soulmate-

- Always in love with you, Bambi.

Harry lets the smile dancing on his lips take over his whole body. Maybe things are going to start making sense again; maybe it was just a bad phase. There's a chance that everything will be ok. Louis will float away from this wreckage, Louis will survive, of course he will and that's all that matters, but maybe Harry will too. Maybe there's no wreckage to begin with; maybe the two of them are floating in a secret ocean only they know, running his hands through the untouched sand, feeling the sunlight painting their skin with love. It's a secret island made for two; made for them. They don't need life vests, they will save themselves.

Harry takes a deep breath, runs his fingers into Louis' feathery hair and lets them stay there, tangled, pulling a little at the top of Louis' head. Louis is the Rapunzel Harry will keep safe; Louis is the Rapunzel Harry will save and, in return, Louis will save him too.

When Harry starts singing again, he can feel his heartbeat like a hummingbird against his throat, Louis rises and falls according to Harry's breathing and yes, they are in sync.

_ Love of my life, you've hurt me  _

_ You've broken my heart and now you leave me _

_ Love of my life, can't you see?  _

_ Bring it back, bring it back  _

_ Don't take it away from me, because you don't know  _

_ What it means to me _

Harry doesn't know when exactly he started crying, but he doesn't stop. Singing feels like letting a part of his soul escape through his open mouth, letting it explore universes Harry will never hear of and taste all the lives he will never live. Free to see anything, free to live everything, Harry's soul chooses to, instead, wrap itself around Louis' body like a blanket made out of love, made out of Harry. Harry knows Louis can feel it too, the way part of Harry is with him now. Louis doesn't move and Harry keeps singing, letting his soul escape.

The afternoon sky, its shades of yellow and orange, is blurred behind Harry's watery eyes and he can feel the tears running down the side of his face and reaching the ground. Harry hopes flowers will be born here, on the spot his tears are falling; they are painful enough to deserve another chance, a second life. Maybe from Harry's tears there can be beautiful pinky thingies making the world a prettier place for angels like Louis to admire. Harry would like that, he thinks, as he keeps crying; keeps creating new life.

Harry's trying to take deeper breaths, trying to get air into his lungs with no hope that his soul will come back to him; Harry's fine with what he's lost. It's gone. He always knew he wouldn't be whole ever again, ever since he met Louis. There will always be a part of him missing, swimming in the darkest parts of Louis' eyes. Harry's part of something bigger now. It's all he has ever wanted.

When Louis' voice fills the silence, surprising Harry into a love so deep he never knew it existed, Harry can't help but gasp. It's sweet, Louis' voice, just like him. It's thin and perfectly in tune; Louis is a golden angel and Harry's living an ethereal experience.

_ Love of my life, don't leave me  _

_ You've stolen my love, you now desert me  _

_ Love of my life, can't you see? _

_ Bring it back, bring it back  _

_ Don't take it away from me  _

_ Because you don't know  _

_ What it means to me  _

Harry swallows his tears so that he can join Louis.

_ You will remember  _

_ When this is blown over _

_ Everything's all by the way  _

_ When I grow older _

_ I will be there at your side to remind you  _

_ How I still love you (I still love you) _

Harry's ears hurt from a perfection that can't be real; the way their voices blend together… The whole experience feels like it's forbidden- "The forbidden fruit", Harry thinks nonsensically, "letting it dribble down your chin". It feels like it wasn't supposed to be heard by their ears. Harry feels like he just violated a space reserved only for the holiest, lived a divine experience he wasn't worthy of living. Dizzily, Harry doesn't think he has ever heard a prettier sound in his life. Even his own voice, another feature of himself that he usually hates, sounded beautiful when accompanied by Louis' perfect, sweet voice. They sounded divine together; pure. Sacred. It feels like they were born to this. It tastes like fate.

They are a duet. They are the dream team.

They sing together until Louis closes his eyes.

They sing together until Harry closes his eyes as well.

❥

Startled and jerking both of his legs at the same time, Harry wakes up to Louis' voice in an unusual high volume. The headache is here as well, good. As Harry tries to open his eyes slowly, he finds them sticking together, something that only happens when Harry sleeps a too heavy sleep (probably another side effect of the emergency button; thank the little red pill). All the while, Louis' voice is getting louder and slightly shriller and even if Louis does reach his particular levels of annoying sometimes, he never wakes Harry up like this. There's always this carefulness in his tone, this softness in his touch. Louis usually wakes Harry up with love. It's completely different now and Harry has no idea why.

They are still lying down on the flower-bed, but as Harry finally opens his eyes, he sees that the sky is way darker than it was before and notices that Louis' mouth is now too close to Harry's ear. Harry's already annoyed.

- Harry!

\- Fucking-

\- I asked: what time is it?!

Harry resists the urge to cover Louis' mouth with his hand and looks at his watch. He would do anything that has the slightest bit of chance of making Louis stop talking in this high-pitched volume; anything that would make Louis stop talking at all.

\- Almost 7pm.

Harry grumbles and his voice sounds weird to his own ears.

- Why? Got somewhere to be?

It's annoyance that leads Harry into being ironic. He wants to irritate Louis as well, so that Louis can see how terrible his idea of waking up was. Then, after Louis realizes the obvious, they will go back to sleep, mad at each other, sure, but still in a spooning position. It would be great. Harry is still sleepy anyway. Louis doesn't fall for it, though, and Harry's strategy backfires because Louis' answer is the thing that wakes Harry up irreversibly, eliminating any chance of sleeping any further.

\- Thought you had therapy today.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and the headache is definitely here and the world is here again and Harry can barely breathe with the weight of his own existence pressing down on his chest.

\- My father's going to kill me.

- This isn't about your father, Haz. It's about you getting better and-

\- I've gotta go, Louis, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.

Harry pushes Louis out of his chest and stands up so fast he gets dizzy and when he looks behind himself, Louis is trying to follow him, only two steps behind.

\- No, no, stay. It's ok-

- Harry.

Louis holds Harry's face with his two small hands, their secret code for Harry to stop talking and just pay attention to him. Louis' hands are soft against Harry's cheeks and it feels like a last caress from the universe before a star explodes.

\- If you need me-

\- You'll know, Lou.

Louis doesn't answer this time and the last thing Harry sees are the tears in his beautiful eyes beginning to form. Harry's angel is crying and his universe is sad again.

Harry's already 10 steps away from the glare when he hears, in the back of his mind, Louis' voice: "I love you, Harry". When Harry tries to answer, the voice interrupts him: "When we have each other, we have everything".

Harry doesn't stop walking until he reaches his bicycle. Then, he doesn't stop pedalling until he reaches his house. The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that maybe, maybe Louis is right.

❥

Harry fits his key inside the door lock slowly and when the front door does open, he's immediately met with Virginia Styles' nervous eyes, frenetic, as she sits on the white couch they never use, staring straight at Harry's face. "Why is her mouth open like that?" is the first thing Harry asks himself as he locks the door behind him. Virginia is wearing a baggy grey shirt and she looks tired and nervous while she holds her cellphone against her squeezed cheek. Her face looks more wrinkled than Harry has ever seen it, older, and her dark hair is loose and messy. She never looks like this, never this sloppy. She's never at home on Thursdays as well, never around this time. "Something's wrong", Harry thinks, but chooses to ignore the thought in the same way Chuck ignored his cancer for that first few months.

As soon as Virginia's brain seems to realize that she's indeed looking at Harry and not at an hallucination entering her living room, that's how Harry feels she's looking at him right now, like he's an hallucination, she hangs up her phone without saying goodbye. The cellphone simply falls onto the couch and bounces on it twice. Harry didn't know their white couch was so, soft, he never sat on it, not even once. Harry doesn't think Virginia has sat on it before today as well. Harry's train of thought gets interrupted when Virginia mutters to no one in particular, mutters to an empty room, "Richard, he's here". She turns her head to the elevator when she speaks, but there is no indication that Richard heard her, very few chances that he actually did, but Virginia doesn't repeat herself.

When she turns her head back at Harry, Harry can see the way she tries to change the emotion behind her eyes before looking straight at him; she tries to disguise her anxiety and her panic into a calm, serene look. She doesn't get even close to pulling it off, but Harry understands that she's about to pretend that nothing is happening. Virginia is going to pretend that there's nothing going on and that everything is normal. The thought only makes Harry even more worried than he already was.

\- Hey, sweetie.

She never calls him sweetie and Harry can see the way her eye is twitching. Stress.

\- Where have you been?

Harry only stands still, looking fixedly at her face. He feels paralyzed. He knows that she already started whatever game she intends to play with him, but he still doesn't understand which one it is. Harry doesn't know what she expects him to do, doesn't know what he's supposed to say. The only things Harry knows for certain is that something is wrong and that he's not safe here. She's already playing, though, and Harry should keep up. The viper greets the mouse.

\- Come!

Her voice is shrill, hurting Harry's eardrums, and Harry startles once and startles again when she pats the empty space beside her on the couch; on the white leather couch they never use.

\- Sit here with me, for a bit, yeah?

Harry's afraid because she's too nervous and so he does, he sits right next to her.

\- Now, how was your day?

She speaks slowly, smiling her white teeth, fangs, and if Harry was a doctor like Richard, he would classify her as hysterical.

- It was fine, Mom, I was-

\- I'm asking because Dr. Mills called me. Because you forgot your session, today, yeah? The one you weren't supposed to forget?

She's speaking like Harry is an idiot. Maybe he is. _Maybe you are._

\- I'm sorry, Mom, I got distracted-

\- Where were you, Harry? And I'm begging you here, don't lie to me.

Harry won't, there's no reason to lie now.

\- Chuck used to hang out-

\- That place in the woods?

Suddenly, Harry's mouth is filled with the bitter taste of invasion; he feels invalid. He feels almost non-existent, disappearing into his own skin. It's the bitterness that comes from the realization that maybe Harry and Chuck's secret place isn't as precious as Harry believed it was. It feels wrong that Virginia knows about The Refuge, even if Harry was the one about to tell her all about the place. Harry feels invaded. It's the first time since their conversation - if that's what this is called - started that Harry feels physically hurt. It's a tough blow but it's not mortal. Not yet. Harry will survive with a knife stuck into his heart, a knife that hasn't been twisted yet. Harry doesn't know whether it's mercy or punishment.

- Have you been there?

Harry needs to know, so he asks. By Virginia's reaction, it was apparently the wrong thing to do.

\- No, Harry, I haven't been there. - Virginia answers and she sounds irritated.

Harry doesn't know if her annoyance is due to some old sibling resentment that she carries around from Chuck never taking her, his only sister, to his secret place, never taking her to The Refuge; or if her anger is Harry's fault for getting them off track. It's probably Harry's fault.

\- But he was my little brother, I had to know where he was. He understood that he wasn't always safe, different from you.

There isn't a day where Harry isn't aware of the many differences between him and Chuck. Harry hates every single one of them, hates to be reminded of all the ways he felt short.

\- I don't think I'm safe, Mom, I don't. But I wasn't alone anyway.

Virginia takes a deep breath like her show has just started, like this is what she was waiting for all along and maybe this isn't a game, maybe this isn't a show; Harry read it all wrong. This is an ambush.

\- Weren't you alone, Harry?

Harry shakes his head. Not mentally, not physically, no, he wasn't.

\- Who were you with, Harry?

\- A friend.

\- No, sweetie, what's this friend's name?

It's an ambush and an interrogation. It isn't fair because Harry has done nothing wrong aside from skipping one doctor's appointment. One in how many? The way Virginia questions him, like a bad cop that finally caught a murderer; like a snake who finally caught a mouse is one of the worst feelings Harry has felt in a long time. _Is it really?_ And the problem is that he doesn't deserve this; it's unfair and he wants to scream but there's no one that can save him. "You're gonna have to save yourself".

- His name's Louis.

From the corner of his eye, Harry can see Virginia's hand shaking. It makes Harry's breathing start to follow the same pattern; nervous and inconstant; fast-paced. Exactly the opposite of what Louis taught him to do. Harry can feel the anxiety blossoming inside his chest like a rotten rose; he's afraid to suffocate.

\- Oh! Louis!

Virginia isn't saying Louis' name for the first time. Harry can tell simply by the way she curls her tongue around it; a deadly viper bathing its prey in her oily poison. Harry never wants her to speak Louis' name again.

\- Gemma told me about him… So, what is he like?

She claps both of her hands into her thighs, faking excitement in a way so absurd that it hurts Harry's eyes and Harry wants to burn them again, for a completely different reason, but Harry can only take a deep breath and close his eyes. He counts to ten and tries not to cry because he doesn't understand what's going on.

\- He's nice, Mom, he's kind to me-

Virginia interrupts him with a crying hiccup. She runs her long fingers, ringless for the first time in years, on top of her wet eyes, wiping away her black tears, dark from all her badly removed makeup.

\- Can you tell me where you met him, sweetie?

And then... Harry's head just… goes blank.

Absolutely blank.

_ You’re crazy. You’ve finally lost it, haven’t you?  _

\- Because, I see here in your dream journal-

Harry's worst nightmares might as well have come true right in front of his eyes when Virginia moves around in her place at the white couch and pulls out Harry's dream journal from behind her. The notebook is opened, violated, obviously read through, snooped into. "Your body is not a temple, for fuck's sake", but Harry never felt so desecrated. Deep down in his core, it feels like a part of him just died. The worst part is that Harry isn't even sure if he does want that dead part of him anymore because it was supposed to be private and now that another person has seen it, does it even have any value anymore? It's better off dead. It's just another part of himself Harry has lost today. Looking back at his dream journal staring back at him, Harry sees this for what it is: it's abuse of a position of trust, it's violation of his privacy, it's killing him inside. It's murder. Harry wants to throw up.

\- That he simply started appearing out of nowhere; this Louis. In your dreams, in real life. You had never talked about him before to anyone.

_ Can't really remember meeting him, can you?  _

_ That's because he's not real.  _

The comfortable shirt Harry randomly chose today is starting to cling to his body. It takes him a while to realize that it's due to all his sweating. Harry feels feverish. On Harry's face, the salty liquid is mixing itself with the tears that are beginning to appear on the corner of Harry's eyes, and he feels like he's about to faint because this can't be happening.

\- So, I'm gonna ask you again, sweetie. How did you meet this Louis?

- He's real, Mom, I swear, I can prove it. I swear.

Harry's blinding desperation to prove that he is right and that Louis is real is the one thing that is keeping him coherent right now. Virginia doesn't need to make the effort. She's the privileged snake, she can just sit and watch as the helpless mouse goes crazy inside his own head. That's why while Harry is keeping his tears streaming quietly down his cheeks, Virginia's sobs are echoing through their living room. Harry, stupidly, feels the urgent need to calm her down.

\- Mom, he always calls me, we text all the time and-

Harry can barely understand her words between her sobs, but when he does, it feels like ice dripping down his spine; it feels like drinking gasoline before lighting a match with your teeth. It feels like being burned alive.

\- Harry, I took your charger three months ago. Three months. - And now she sounds grumpy and it's almost funny. It's almost funny.

Virginia's last answer sounds so out of context that Harry thinks that for whatever asylum they end up sending him to, she should come with. Virginia's tone while she corrects Harry is the same she uses for her social gatherings; she's acting like she's at a fancy party and one of her closest friends isn't backing her up in her funny story. She speaks in a tone that sounds a lot like "Come on, Harry, let's be reasonable here, stop playing" and that's not what's happening. That's not what's happening at all.

She is still speaking, Harry thinks, but he can't hear a word she's saying. His ears are completely clogged by the haze of despair and he might as well be deaf because he can't focus on anything else taking his phone out of his pocket. All his other senses are useless until he can prove that he's not wrong here; he's not crazy. Harry knows he looks frantic, and crazy and maniac but it's simply because that's what he is. He doesn't deny his nature; he's a proud mouse. Harry's mind is nothing but a constant looping of "Turn on, turn on, turn on" while he presses the power button and when the phone refuses to light up, he presses it again and again and again. He thinks he hears Virginia's voice getting louder and that's the only reason why he doesn't throw the phone at the closest wall; might as well throw it in the middle of that snob family painting, two birds, one stone. Harry thinks about the two birds that flew over the flower-bed only a couple hours ago, even if it feels like centuries. Harry decides his phone must have run out of battery. Today. It must have run out of battery earlier today, not three months ago. It's the only logical explanation.

Harry starts searching his mind desperately, the dirtiest corners of it, the good part of it, looking for any other ways he can prove that Louis is as real as he is; prove that Louis is the only thing that makes sense.

_ How are you going to tell her he’s not real?  _

_ She’ll lock you up.  _

It's getting hotter inside Harry's brain. Stuffy, humid and blazing. Harry's mind is starting to set itself on fire, lighting itself up with flames that come straight from hell's insanity and maybe that's how he burns, in a hell he- The book!

\- The book!

There's the book, "Love is a dog from hell", Bukowski. Harry tries to contain his tears. Louis found it for him at The Whipped's bookstore and there's this little note Louis left for Harry on the first page.

\- Mom, there's my book!

Harry doesn't wait for her to catch up, doesn't wait for her to understand his words. He simply starts running; he doesn't even take the elevator, goes straight to their staircase. Nothing in the world was ever more urgent than this. Whenever he tries to get his breathing under control, because everything's about to be fine, he can hear Virginia's footsteps right behind him. But it's ok. Everything's ok. Harry knows it's there. "Dear bambi, here’s the fucking book you've been looking for". Harry opens his bedroom door with his chest, doesn't even place his arms in front of it, there's no time for finesse. He falls into his knees right in front of his nightstand and it hurts when his bones hit the floor, but he barely notices it; he opens its first drawer and the book is there. The book is there. "We’re on the same wavelength. We’re connected that way, even if I’m away from you. L xx”. When Harry picks it up, he notices for the first time that his hands are shaking. He misses the right page three different times but it's ok because he knows it's here and he can prove it and when he finally manages to open the first page, the right one, there's nothing written on it, there's nothing but white paper and maybe Harry's head will truly explode this time and he's crying compulsively before he knows it and the tears fall down on the empty page and Harry rubs his fingers on top of it, hoping that if he does hard enough, Louis' bad calligraphy will show up again. Virginia wordlessly places a hand on Harry's shoulder.

It must have been the noise they made, Harry and Virginia, while climbing up the staircase running that made Richard come check if everything's ok. It must have been it because Harry is still on his knees, crying desperately, Virginia standing right behind him, crying as well, when Richards knocks on Harry's open bedroom door three times in a row. Three quick, short knocks.

\- Everything ok, here?

Harry ignores his question because he can't think. He can't think. Instead, Harry helplessly mutters a low "He chose my waking up song" and it is indeed so low that only Virginia hears it and she answers him with a wet whisper of "Oh, baby" like she's hurting too, before she stands up. Harry has no idea where she's heading to, only knows that the heat on his shoulder, coming from her ringless hands, is gone.

Someone sits on Harry's bed, Harry can feel the movement of the duvet against his left arm. When Harry turns his head to the left, he sees his father, eyes kind and patient, just like this morning.

\- Can you hear me, son?

Harry nods.

\- Your alarm clock has a Bluetooth system.

Harry makes a point of nodding his head harder because he knows how it works, he isn't stupid, this isn't about that.

\- It's connected to my phone.

Harry shakes his head, crying harder than before.

\- Yes, it is, son. Yes, it is.

Richard places his hand on Harry's shoulder in the same way he did on Gemma's party but Harry can almost taste all the different ways there's a bit more compassion in the gesture this time.

\- You chose the songs. You chose Echo & The Bunnymen and Frank Sinatra. It's been a while since the last time we changed it.

Desperately, Harry can physically feel the way his mind is spiralling down and he's trying to breath, he really is, but then Virginia is coming back from his bathroom, Harry can hear her hard footsteps against his floor, and when she's speaks, Harry hasn’t stopped choking on his own imagination yet. He’s drowning when she asks:

\- Harry. What's this?

It wasn’t in Harry’s plan to look up at her, his idea was to simply ignore her question, but Richard doesn’t follow Harry’s plan and there's something so violent and urgent about the way Richard squeezes Harry's shoulder that makes Harry look up immediately. In Virginia's hands there's a glass jar, a beautiful one, one of those that kids must use to store their cookies, and the glass jar, with a red ribbon around its top, is filled with pills; white, dark white and light blue. It's a mountain. It’s Harry’s sanity mountain. In the fraction of a second that it takes for Virginia to react, Harry notices that the pills have finally reached the red ribbon. Harry wants to cry because it's the first goal he has ever set for himself and actually achieved and still, it means nothing and, at the same time, it means everything.

There's no denying the way Harry winces with the shrill sound of broken glass that comes from the bathroom when Virginia throws the glass jar at Harry's sink. Harry can hear it shattering. His mind can hear it to; there’s a greasy laughter coming from the deepest part of Harry’s brain; hearing it feels like being forced to choke on rotten honey. Bringing his desperate eyes to Richard in an attempt to go deaf to voices that aren’t there, Harry realizes that this is the first time that Richard looks unquestionably concerned. Richard looks sad, lost in thoughts somewhere far away from here. When his eyes land back on Harry's face, Richard says, without thinking:

\- Oh, Harry, what have you done?

The words sting against Harry's wide-eyes and against Harry's burning skin, a drop of water in boiling oil, because it's parental love, but it hurts. It’s love as liquid disappointment; it’s quick sand; it’s hot tar. Harry is trapped in parental love’s tar and he’s never getting out of it alive. Leaning back against the nightstand involuntarily, Harry realizes that he can’t hold the weight of his body alone anymore; he hopes the tar will hold him at least. He hopes the tar will be merciful, kind. Trying to answer Richard’s question, Harry feels ashamed and inappropriate and undeserving of Richard’s blistering parental love, but, at the same time, he wants to scream "What did you expect me to do? I was going to suffocate!". Harry doesn't scream, it wouldn't help. Instead, he swallows the hot tar. It's easy to see, just by looking a bit more carefully at Richard's once-again lost eyes, that, for a second, Richard isn't in reality anymore: he's looking at a destroyed Harry in front of him, but he's seeing a six-year-old child, round pink cheeks and the curliest brown hair. Richard is looking at a baby-Harry; he's deciding again whether to offer baby-Harry the emergency pill or to offer him poison. It must be a tough choice, deciding whether you destroy your kid yourself or if you just sit and watch as they do the job on their own. It’s desperately tragic and it makes Harry snort with a kind of humor he knows it’s wrong, but it’s still a bit funny. Harry wants to laugh because it's sad and so he does. Uncontrollable. Unrestrained. The laugh brings Richard back to reality and he's about to say something when Virginia kneels down right in front of Harry.

\- Can you please tell me where you've met Louis, Harry? Can you?

_ You were going to kill yourself, weren't you? _

Harry wants to scream that he wasn't going to, was never going to go through with it, but he's not strong enough to lie right now.

_ You were going to kill yourself on that Dragon Bridge. _

"But then I didn't", Harry thinks. He remembers it was a day worse than it usually was. The last worst day of Harry’s life. Harry thinks that he was heading to the Dragon Bridge and that, yeah, he was planning on ending it, on stopping - _on killing yourself_ \- on stopping the pain. Harry left Chuck's bicycle at The Whipped as a gift to the coffee shop for offering Harry a safe space to simply exist, among the best coffee, the best music, the best books. Harry’s still thankful for it. So, he left the bicycle there because it’s the place where it was supposed to be, the place where it belonged. Chuck would have liked The Whipped, every single floor; Harry wishes Chuck could have visited it with him, wishes they could have had breakfast for dinner together, exchanging music recommendations surrounded by good books. Everything would be less lonely, Harry knows. The fact that life not always works the way plan it to will always be mourned by Harry. He will never be over the way life did him wrong, he didn’t deserve it - _Didn’t you?_ – life hit him life a train; Harry feels like a fragile flower in the middle of a hurricane, but still, he was trying to give it back to the universe somehow. On the way he planned to be his last, he still left Chuck’s bicycle at The Whipped. Now, Harry thought, another happier, healthier person could have the bike and ride it anywhere they wanted to; The Whipped or anywhere else in the world. Harry set it free.

After leaving Chuck's bike at the rack, Harry started walking slowly to the bridge and it all gets a little foggy in his head, memories mixing together, but he saw a bar he had never seen before; faded out colors and crooked sign. Harry felt its pungent smell of spilled alcohol, old cigar smoke and piss. It didn’t feel as bad as it sounds. Without thinking twice about it, Harry just keep walking, already a bit foggy, already a bit excited because he could feel in his veins that something was about to happen. And then, there was a house. A house Harry had never seen before as well, but it was different than the bar; it was better, it felt inevitable. The house was calling his name like a mermaid singing only the prettiest melodies, the house looked like a lighthouse pointing the way. It felt like a rope guiding Harry home. For a second, Harry thought he had finally found the center of the universe; the place where all gravity emanates, and the thought made sense back then. Harry didn't resist it, the pull of it, the gravity of the house. Inexplicably, he changed his way; stopped walking towards the Dragon Bridge and started walking towards the front porch of his new magical house. He followed his needs, his emotions, his mind. It felt like mixing water and oil; defying the laws of the universe in a way only he could do because it was mutual. “It’s mutual”, Harry repeated to himself without understanding his own mind.

It didn’t matter how confused he felt, there was no other option but death and there's no way to say it through euphemisms. Harry was going to kill himself and the house made him stop. Harry made his way into the house's front porch and he simply knocked on its front door and when he did, he felt something he had never felt before. Only by touching the door's wood, it felt like Harry had lived a different life somewhere else; a simpler life, happy. It filled Harry's chest with hope. Maybe there was a chance for him after all and then Louis… Louis opened the door. Harry knocked and Louis opened the door and Louis was all Harry had ever known.

- I was having a bad day.

\- Hm. - Virginia says; tears in her eyes and hands still shaking.

\- Worse than all the other ones.

Richard is looking fixedly at Harry, not saying a word.

\- So, I knocked on his door.

\- That's how you met him?

\- Yes, he opened the door for me.

\- And where does he live, Harry?

\- There's this... This white house near… near The Whipped…

\- With blue windows?

Virginia is smiling as if everything is about to be fine. Another ambush. Harry smiles back without thinking, running nose and swollen eyes.

- Yes, he lives there with his mom, I-

And then Virginia's shouting:

\- No one lives there, Harry, it's an abandoned house-

For a second, the whole world goes quiet, paralyzed and suspend, and even Virginia’s voice is reduced to nothing but dust, angry lips forming desperate words Harry can’t hear. In that small second of silence, with the universe allowing Harry to enjoy one extra second to breathe before it all goes down in flames, Harry understands and quietly accepts the fact that he will never recover from this. Without moving, Harry blinks his eyes to the universe, in a symbol that means nothing but “I accept my fate. I won’t fight it, I won’t resist it, I understand that it’s all ruined”. When the sounds return and life is resumed, Harry doesn’t remember ever making the gesture, but the feeling of cooperation is still swimming on his chest.

The first noise Harry hears, when the universe’s merciful extra second is over, is his own cry; so deafening and hiccupping that Harry doubts he is the one making such shrill sound. Harry cries because he knows she's right. _Oops_. He abdicates, he surrenders. He understands now that he was standing there, in front of an abandoned house, all by himself, talking to the thin air, laughing and feeling alive for the first time in years when, in reality, he was doing nothing but making a fool of himself; no Chuck, no Louis. Harry was just being insane again. It’s embarrassing as much as it’s pitiful. He feels so pathetic when he pictures it that he can barely swallow, can barely breathe; Harry feels greasy and crazy. He feels like he should perform a lobotomy on himself.

- Then-

There's no air inside of Harry's lungs, so he is forced to start again.

\- Then-

\- Harry-

\- Then, I've always known Louis. I've known him since forever-

\- No, Harry. You haven't-

It’s downhill from now on and Harry’s brakes are drowning in melted tar. Harry is crying an already desperate cry, but it only gets worse when Virginia starts shouting again. Harry tries to understand her; it can't be easy having to deal with a defective son. She must be as desperate as he is; her rotten seed; a genetic mistake. Maybe Harry’s the one keeping her from Australia; maybe Harry is the one keeping her caged.

\- You fucking haven't, Harry, you don't know him because he doesn't exist, Harry! He doesn't exist-

_ You deserve this._

Suffocating, Harry wants to scream until his voice gives out and he's not sure if he does, can’t really process anything but his attempt to breathe and not extend this panic attack, but he somehow hears his father's voice in the middle of the chaotic hurricane inside his mind. If Harry’s mind was a dandelion field, there would be no dandelions left; Harry would have plucked them all out of the ground with his sick mental hurricane, leaving behind a deserted land, butchered. If Harry’s mind was a dandelion field, they would be all dead. It’s a sad thought. Harry loves dandelions.

\- Virginia, that's enough.

When Harry's eyes focus on the room around him, he sees Richard holding Virginia by her arm, a grip determined and strong, and helping her make her way outside of Harry's bedroom. Then, Richard closes the bedroom door from the inside. He takes a deep breath with his forehead pressed to the door and slowly takes a small object out of his pocket. Harry takes longer than acceptable to understand that Richard is locking his bedroom door. It’s Harry’s bedroom key. Richard is the one who has it. Taking another deep breath and sounding tired, like he’s a wrestler getting himself ready for another round, the elimination one, Richard turns around. He takes three steps until he reaches Harry and kneels down in front of him. Richard holds Harry's head with both of his hands. Apparently, he's not the only one who knows that's the only way to make Harry pay attention to anything when he’s like this; did Harry give Louis this special detail while he was creating him inside his mind? Is it a personalized feature? Did Harry always want Louis to be able to get his attention? It's so sick it's alarming.

\- You need to calm down, son. Your mother can stay here, at the house, it's fine, but we're gonna need to go to a hospital, Harry.

Harry only shakes his head.

\- We need to, son. I’m sorry. I'm going to take you there and I’ll be with you the whole time and everything will be fine. Can you breathe with me, please?

Harry doesn't even try. Just closes his eyes and lets his hummingbird heart beat however it wants to; lets his lungs collapse from the speed that he's dry heaving. What's the point anyway?

The way Harry’s body visibly flinches when his bedroom’s doorknob starts to move, sharply, quickly, should be embarrassed but it isn’t. Richard startled as well.

\- Richard!

Virginia’s voice pierce Harry’s ear like a needle against his eyes.

\- Richard, did you lock me out?!

Clearly distressed, Richard’s eyes are concerned, alternating between the bedroom door and Harry’s face as if he’s being forced to make the hardest decision of his life. Maybe he is. When Virginia starts knocking again, harder this time, Harry makes the decision for him.

\- Dad, please make her stop!

\- Richard, open the fucking door!

She knocks again, ten strong knocks in quick succession and the whole thing shouldn’t be as dramatic as Harry is making it, but he still feels like he’s swallowing melted tar. It’s just maternal love, he knows, even if it comes in the shape of a hammer to Harry’s nail sanity. When the noise doesn’t stop and Virginia’s voice seems to be getting increasingly shrill – she’s getting desperate; she needs to see; she needs to take care of her son; it’s instinct; it’s maternal love; she needs to pour melted tar onto Harry’s head; she needs to hammer his sanity – Harry covers his ears. He’s ashamed of the violent way he places his hands against his ears and try to keep breathing; the ugly sound of Harry’s heaving filling the bedroom. As his lungs expand and contract against the wood of his nightstand, Harry feels as if he’s breathing broken glass.

When Harry looks up at Richard, he notices that his father is sweating, serious and still, completely rational. You have to be a strong one to be able to see your son's mind collapsing in front of you and still keep your cool. Maybe Richard is a fine doctor, after all. Maybe he could have been a good father.

\- I'll be right back. Can you keep breathing for me, son? Slowly. I'll be right back. I promise. It will take just a second.

Nodding, Harry watches Richard stand up slowly. Harry waits until he hears the sound of his bedroom door closing from the outside. Then, Harry stands up and makes his way to the door. He blocks out his parents’ voices - Richard’s nothing but a low murmur and Virginia’s piercing shouting – and in the silence, he’s the only thing that exists; alone; real; crazy. _That’s it._ Silently, Harry turns the golden key Richard left behind. Harry turns it just once. It’s all it takes. He’s alone now. He’s sobbing, but it’s just background noise. As soon as he locks the door, Harry starts moving at a faster speed. He heads immediately to his bathroom and locks himself in again because nothing else matters. It’s just a prison inside of a prison inside of a prison; it’s a mouse’s labyrinth; it’s a tar Harry won’t escape, it’s a tar Harry will drink.

As Harry closes his eyes, leaning against his bathroom door, his masochist mind takes him back to the time where he told Louis: "I wanna marry you, you know? I wanna watch the fire in your blue eyes burning as your pretty face begins to wrinkle, becoming more and more mine every second. I wanna see you 60 years from now and know that I married the boy whose soul could never die”. Louis had simply nodded, a small smile on his lips when he said "Then that's what we're gonna do", but Louis never said anything because Louis doesn't exist in the first place and Harry never wanted to die as much as he does right now.

Starting to check his surroundings, Harry is nothing but a sad zombie, half-dead, taking it all in as if this was the first time he ever saw the interior of his own bathroom. Harry looks at the bathroom white cold floor and at its ceiling, looks at his empty bathtub and his burgundy Egyptian cotton towel, and eventually, Harry’s eyes reach the mess inside his sink: there are pills and shards of glass and pills and shards of glass everywhere. It's all there's left of their little strawberry jar, of Harry's achieved goal.

\- This is an apology letter to the both of us, Lou.

Harry's crying and his lungs sting as if he's drowning on acid.

\- Sanity is nothing but a cozy lie, yeah?

When Harry looks at the mirror, he- _looking really crazy tonight, kid. Crazy sick._ \- he squeezes his eyes shut and starts taking deep breaths; places both of his hands against the sink counter so they can hold his body weight and lowers his head, curly hair falling in front of his face, feeling dizzy. When that doesn’t make him feel any better, Harry bites his lip until he can taste blood, until there’s metal in his mouth. "I can taste the iron in my blood". He can feel the way he is shaking with fear and hopelessness because there's nowhere else to hide from the truth. If the only thing that ever made sense to you doesn't exist, then there's no other way around it: you're crazy. _That’s what I’ve been telling you._ The fact that you're drowning in a water that doesn't exist doesn't make the water real, Louis should have known that, it makes your mind rotten. Squeezing his eyes shut one last time before opening them, Harry thinks about how tangible Louis felt against his skin, thinks about how soft-

Harry opens his eyes and his nostrils flare and he gasps as his back hits the bathroom door behind him with a loud thump because sitting at the top of Harry's sink counter, it's Louis. Louis. His caramel fringe falling down in front of his face as he looks at his own shoes, hanging in the air. To Harry’s heart, the view hurts in all the right ways and it heals in all the wrong ones. It’s like choking in golden ashes and hoping to survive. Louis looks up at Harry and his blue eyes are too sad and there's a hint of pity swimming on them, Harry desperately notices, but Louis is still golden, sunlight in human form, and Harry wants to throw up.

\- Please, tell me this is a dream.

Harry whispers while he keeps his gaze on Louis' eyes. Louis doesn’t move.

\- Wake me up, Lou. Please.

The silence that stretches between them lasts several eternities, several different lives they were supposed to have spent together. They stay quiet, breathing in the same air in a universe that belongs only to them, but there's no them because Harry's here alone and Harry-

- I'm sorry.

Harry feels sick again; he feels sick and he feels wrong and he wants to get out of his own skin. Maybe there's no place for him in this world. It would make sense; how can someone exist if they are lost in reality? If they are so deeply lost that they can't find a foothold, can't find a safe place to exist? Can't tell the difference between what's real and what isn't?

\- How aren’t you real, Louis?

And then the question Harry really wants to ask:

\- Why aren’t you real?

Louis looks up at Harry from behind his long eyelashes, his eyebrows furrowed. Angry. Harry can feel the puff of air that comes out of Louis' lips against his cheek and a hallucination never felt so corporeal. Harry wonders what evil has he committed in another life to be punished with the gift of creating something so beautiful.

- I am real.

And then, in a voice lost and sad:

- I know I'm real.

Harry shakes his head so violently he gets dizzy.

\- I thought I could touch you-

\- You could! You did. You touched me everywhere, love-

Louis makes a move with his hips, shake them from one side to another, as if he was trying to get out of his spot on the sink counter and closer to Harry and Harry takes a step back, raising both of his hands in front of his chest, terrified, wordlessly telling Louis “no” and hitting his back against the bathroom door for the second time.

\- I didn’t, you're not- You’re in my head. You're with me, you aren’t real.

Shaking his head, looking sad and almost defeated, Louis stick his small hands between his thighs, sitting on them and hunching over like he’s trying to protect himself.

- Why can’t I be both?

It’s barely a whine, it’s a shy cry into the universe. It’s a request.

Every word coming out of Louis’ mouth is a drop of gasoline into Harry’s bonfire; they are heading to an explosion, inevitably. They both know it. Harry already accepted his fate.

- Because I made you up! Louis, I-

Harry’s voice is getting more and more desperate, encouraged by the realization that he is arguing with the voices inside of his own mind (the good voices, obviously, Louis is nothing short but perfect) about why said voices isn’t real. Harry is having to explain himself; explain all the different ways in which he is fucked up in the head. That’s what his own mind is forcing him to do. That’s what Louis is forcing him to do. It isn’t fair. It’s his final torture.

When Louis slides off of the sink counter, small feet hitting the floor with a quiet thump, Harry visibly flinches. Louis’ voice is calm and sweet, it’s still the best sound that Harry has ever heard. It’s hypnotizing; maybe Louis is the lion tamer after all. The thought makes Harry feel even more betrayed than before, even when there’s no one else to blame but himself.

\- Don’t say that. It doesn’t change anything.

How does it not-?

\- How the fuck doesn’t it change- Louis, I-

Harry wants to punch everything until his knuckles bleed.

- I- Louis, I can’t breathe.

With a pained expression on his face, Louis immediately makes his way over to Harry, getting way closer, eyes worried and kind. Louis moves his small hands slowly, as if alerting Harry of all his future movements so Harry has the option to step away. Harry doesn’t. Louis takes both of his hands in his and Harry almost gasps because they are solid as they always were; as real; as Harry’s. This must be the last nail in Harry’s coffin, a last tear of mercy from the universe. He gets to touch Louis one last time. Louis holds on tight to Harry’s hands, as if he can confirm his existence through his touch, as if he wasn’t tricking Harry all along. Louis’ skin is soft and Harry savors it for a second longer than he should; allows himself to get lost on Louis’ smell one last time. It tastes like vanilla and insanity.

\- No, love, no. You gotta keep yourself safe, you promised, remember? You promised you’d take care of yourself for me.

The voice and the touch and the smell, all combined, is the closest Harry will ever get to heaven; it will also be Harry’s ruin. As soon as he’s remembered of the fact, he squeezes Louis’ fingers between his one last time and lets the touch get him back to reality. Knowing he’s delusional while still keeping the fantasy going makes Harry bark a dry laugh, coughing ashes and tasting broken glass.

\- You don’t even fucking exist-

\- Don’t say that-

- I’m in my bathroom alone, shouting at my mirror-

\- Harry, please, don’t-

- Because you don’t exist-

\- That’s not true!

- Who even let you inside my head, hm?! Why would you do this to me?!

Anger is immediately replaced by sadness.

\- I believed everything you said to me.

And then, by betrayal.

\- Why would you lie, Louis?

- I never lied.

Louis says, his blue eyes earnest.

\- You said you were real.

Harry says bitterly and Louis shakes his head, taking Harry’s hand and pressing it to his chest.

\- I know I can’t explain how.

He can feel the rise and fall of Louis’ lungs as he breathes, the steady thump of his heart.

\- But I’m just as real as you are.

- I loved you so much, why would you-

Deep down, in a place Harry isn't planning on visiting in his mind any time soon, Harry can hear a knocking on the bedroom door; but if the boy in front of him isn't real, what else even is? Is there even a safe way to tell? Is it worthy to keep trying?

- Maybe I’m trapped.

Louis says and he sounds scared, raising his hand to press it to Harry’s chest, his small fingers curling against the cotton of Harry’s tee shirt like he’s trying to push into his chest and hold onto his heart. It’s the solution, Harry realizes. Louis just told him what to do; Harry’s north star, always guiding Harry back to safety, wherever that is. The solution is clear as the undeniable shine of a shard glass against the white, cold light of an empty bathroom.

\- Maybe, I have to-

The way Louis’ answer is high and shrill, reaching a new level of despair, only serves to assure Harry that he was right. Harry found his cure; their cure.

- No, no, Harry. I’m sorry, I was wrong, I’m not trapped.

Louis is so lost and desperate that Harry thinks he can see the mirror vibrating in the rhythm of Louis’ voice. Louis is urgent.

- You don’t need to do anything, I’m here because I want to be-

\- Stop lying to me.

- It’s my fault, Haz, I wanna be here-

Harry shakes his head, choosing not to hear another word, refusing to be tricked again and Louis starts crying – “Pretty when you cry” – and Harry can see his small hands shaking.

\- Harry, don’t take this away from me-

- Shut up.

\- Please, don’t take this away from us-

- SHUT UP!

Harry closes his eyes when he screams this time, squeezing them shut. It’s painful. It’s what needs to be done. The price Harry has to pay. He accepted his fate. When Harry opens his eyes again, Louis isn't there anymore and he tries not to immediately regret his decision and alone, talking only to the universe, Harry explains himself for one last time:

\- Sorry, Lou. I think- I think I don’t wanna say goodbye.

The certainty of never seeing Louis again makes Harry feel like his veins are all exploding simultaneously, overflowing with viper poison. It’s sad and bitter and lonely and it will only last a couple seconds more. Harry can do this.

\- I forgive you, ok? It’s all my fault, Lou. I’m sorry.

Harry lets his eyes travel to the mess in his sink again and he sees his reflection in the shards of glass, sees it in the mirror. On his last coherent thought, if Harry is even conscious enough to have coherent thoughts, Harry wonders whether it's past midnight; because if it is, it's December 2nd. It's the day Chuck died. Maybe all this is just another tradition Harry must respect. Another rule he doesn’t understand, but follows. Obeys.

\- Gonna get you out, Lou.

Harry opens up the tap and gets his hands in the middle of the mess of glass shards, picking up one pill at a time, individually, like always. White, light blue and dark white: Harry makes a small spoon with his hand, fills it with sink water and swallows down the three pills.

And then three.

And then another three.

Maybe if this works, he won't need to use the shards.

Harry can feel himself getting numb, losing the feeling on the tip of his fingers.

- Louis? Lou, can you come back?

Nothing happens.

- Lou, I think I really need you now.

Harry feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin, so he swallows another 3 pills. He feels all wrong inside, so another 3. He is crying, but he's not screaming anymore. That's the numbness.

\- You will find me when it’s over, won’t you?

Harry says, like Louis could hear him that way.

\- Answer me, please. You’ll take care of me, won’t you, Lou? You promised, right?

As Harry gets closer to the point of no return, he feels less frantic. There’re no voices; there's no Louis. There's only him. Alone. Crazy.

\- Lou, please come back.

He’s halfway done when his whole hands start to go numb, his mouth too dry, his fingertips all cut. Harry thinks he might be crying, can taste salt on his lips and wonders if it’s blood and he’s still so scared it’s all he can think. He thought it would be peaceful, that he’d find peace in the breakdown but he just feels terrified and alone and he can’t stop. He knows now that he doesn’t belong in this world, but he doesn’t know if he belongs on the other side either. Harry has been a ghost for a long time now, and he doesn’t know what happens when ghosts die. Maybe they disappear. He thinks he’d like that. Maybe Louis could find him in the afterlife. "I’ll meet you in the afterlife", Harry sang to him.

Harry swallows the last pill, waterlogged in the middle of the mess, and swallows it down the best he can. He fights to keep himself upright, touching the sharp tips of the glass shards.

\- Please, find me.

Harry's blood isn't coagulating, but it feels like it is, clogging his brain and his veins and the rest of his life is turning into a dark gelatine made out of blood. Maybe Harry's his own Malayan pit viper. He grabs the sharpest glass shard, wondering if he will have to use it, but the only voice in his head is his own, emptiness making him feel sick. He’s so dizzy, his head about to burst. Holding the shard between his trembling fingers, he wonders where he needs to cut to get Louis out, if Louis is hiding in his head or in his heart. Turns out, Harry doesn't have to choose.

Unlike his mother, who always managed to keep her balance through life, Harry, feeling the effects from the absurd amount of chemicals taking over his body, his temple- his forest, trips on his own feet. The water coming from the sink, overflowing now, getting the bathroom floor completely wet, makes Harry slip and he falls into his back.

No one was there to see, no one could have possibly known, but Harry's fall is frighteningly similar to one suffered by a blue-eyed boy on the other side of the world 86 days ago, feet trapped into a knock-off Persian carpet. Harry Styles falls just like Louis Tomlinson did. The part of his body that first hits the white and cold bathroom floor is the top of his head. It hurts. Harry can hear the loud thump his head makes when it hits the floor, but that is all he hears for a while.

❥


	7. The Aftershock

** VII **

** THE AFTERSHOCK **

March 30th

\- Lou?

Her voice is patient as it always is these days, considerate and gentle. For months now, she's been treating Louis as if he is this fragile crystal, a sad and weak bubble, a delicate snowflake in need of her care and attention as she dances on eggshells around him. For her, Louis' mind, Louis' sanity, is as frail as a dandelion and he was simply unlucky: life just happened to come to him in the shape of an uncontrollable hurricane. She thinks a part of Louis died in the middle of the violent tornado that took over his life for that period of time last year; Louis thinks she's right. She treats Louis as if he's nothing but the wreckage after the storm, half a survivor, half a victim; she treats him as if he's always at the verge of a mental breakdown. And he isn't. Not anymore.

Louis doesn't consider his state of mind as fragile as it once was; he probably left the "eggshell frail" category - after too much effort, he can admit that - and moved on to the "strong as a fortune cookie" level. Louis is an unlucky fortune cookie then and the silly joke would once have made him laugh.

Even in the face of his painful progress, some things won't change and maybe one day Louis will stop fighting the new constant elements of his life. They are here to stay. So far, Louis can understand why she acts so carefully around him all the time, would be a lunatic if he didn't, would still be in denial and he left denial behind on his "breakable butterfly wing" phase. It came just after "permanent as a soap bubble". He isn't in denial anymore. Louis accepts the undying pity in her voice even if it makes him want to stop existing for a while whenever he hears it, tastes it, breathes it in. It's almost always there, the pity; the way she feels sorry for him almost as undeniable as the fact that maybe Louis is, indeed, worthy of pity. The thought scares him, it does, but not enough to the point where he would do something about it. Who cares what other people think? "Hell is other people", Ha- Sartre once said.

\- Louis, baby.

There's a pattern in Louis analogies, in the metaphors he creates. He has noticed it during all the terrible free time he had to explore, scared and alone, the inside of his own mind, the wrong way it works, its little ticks. Louis laid alone in his bed, crying himself to sleep while trying to figure out all the little ways he went psychologically wrong. It wasn't as worrying as it sounds: he tried to make it therapeutic by memorizing all of them, trying to make sure they would never happen again and praying to whatever God was out there that they would. During those painful self-torture sessions, among several other problems, Louis noticed that whenever he feels attracted, feels guided by something - or worse, by someone - and gets this feeling inside his chest that he should (or that he wants to) follow it blindly, his mind brings up the imagery of the sky. Louis' mind compares whatever it is, whoever it is, to the moon. It must be nothing but an emotional way, silly and childish, developed by Louis' brain to approach the inevitability of gravity. That's how he justified some of his previous behavior, justified several different actions he once took, not too long ago. Gravity. It felt like the moon needed him to follow her. Doorbells, green eyes or running footsteps in the middle of the night; whatever insignificant little detail (that didn't taste at all as liquid hope; didn't taste at all as a new universe only his to take), Louis thought of it as a full moon pulling him in.

Now, after - Louis is still not ready to admit the division he created for his life; what really separates the before from the after - now, after everything, Louis' mind still does it. The moon metaphor thing. Obviously, it is way less charming and way sadder than it once was. There are no silky curls or low laughs, no poetry from the top of an empty stage, even emptier than Louis though it was by then. Now, with the reality Louis has left, the only one he has ever had, there's only his mother's voice. In the middle of his own particular wreckage, Louis compares it to the moon, the moon that was left behind. His mother's voice is distant but pulling and Louis feels the inevitability from her gravity all the way from his place at the bottom of the ocean. Louis isn't floating anymore, that's another thing that changed: now, he sits alone at the bottom of an ocean, swallowing an air that isn't there, filling his lungs with heavy water while he keeps drowning over and over again. Her voice is calling him now, though, controlling the tides above him; she's bringing Louis back to reality. Louis just wants her to stop.

\- Baby, it's almost 3pm, you gotta wake up. I'm sorry.

She apologizes because she understands. She does. The thought by itself would probably be the thing that would hurt Louis the most if he wasn't so numb. If he was capable of feeling anything right now, this would sting the worst. She apologizes because she's bringing Louis back to a reality he doesn't want to experience. The moon knows that Louis belongs at the bottom of the ocean now; underwater. She feels guilty for bringing him to the surface and it shows on her voice. Louis wonders if that's what his loud crying as a baby used to do to her; not the moon's gravity extracting her from the safety of her ocean, but an annoying and shrill siren bringing her back to prison, back to her cell in reality. He can't help but extend the thought to their current dynamic. Maybe Louis ended up doing the same thing to her as an adult as well, without ever meaning to; maybe he's still doing it, a piercing alarm clock that took her away from her dreams because he went crazy for a while.

In a way, Louis thinks he can picture himself as her anchor; whenever he's feeling more optimistic about his impacts on her life. He thinks it would be fair since he keeps her grounded; doesn't let her fly away, doesn't let her dream. In a way, he is her burden. Maybe they finally reached a mutual relationship with each other, disturbing each other's fantasies, trying to keep the other present in this worse reality, the only real one. It's the perfect mother-and-son dynamic. Louis used to dream about having a reciprocal relationship with her. Before, he means; he used to dream about it before. Who could have imagined the force of the hurricane the dandelion would have to face in order to finally achieve that reciprocated feeling with his mother? She's a present one now. Louis may have lost everything that ever mattered to him, but as a parting gift from the trauma, he got an over-concerned mother. Or, well, an adequately-concerned mother. Considering the details of Louis' hurricane, she's the one who might be right in treating Louis like a fragile crystal, like a bubble lost in a wind that doesn't exist.

\- Mel's here and Dr. Taylor is scheduled for 6pm, ok, baby?

That's what the moon says before running her skinny fingers through Louis' forehead. Louis can feel the cautiousness radiating from her caress, the patience and the fear that guides her delicate fingers. Louis nods his head, rubbing it against his pillow, just so that she understands that she can calm down a little. No mental breakdowns in sight, Louis promises, she can step on the eggshells for now. Nothing changes after Louis nods. Feeling sorry for how tense she still is, her fingers caressing Louis' cheek as a request, as a silent cry for him to say something, for him to say anything, Louis gives her a small smile, with his eyes still closed. He's doing it before he realizes that his attempt at calming her down can backfire. A closed-eyes smile may lead her to believe that Louis is lost in the haze of unreal happiness, having another one of those dreams; those special dreams. "The dreams you stopped having a long time ago", she would say. "The ones I stopped telling you about", Louis would mentally correct her. Her breath doesn't catch, though, so Louis assumes she's fine with his non-verbal confirmation.

Also, Louis thinks that by now she has dedicated herself so deeply to watching over him, her fragile little seed, that she probably already memorized all his habits, all the ways he reacts to specific themes. She must know that there isn't going to be a time where she calls Nora, "Dr. Taylor", that Louis won't let out a small smile appear on his face. Louis doesn't find it funny in the way he used to. He already made his peace with that part of his humor who hasn't visited his mind for a while now. Louis smiles not because it's funny but because it's comic and it's ironic because it's sad. Louis' mother calls Nora, "Dr. Taylor", as an attempt to give Nora an air of professionalism she does not own nor really deserve, in Louis' opinion. It's like Louis' mother thinks the title by itself gives Nora some authority, it's like she's actively trying to give some aura of respect to Nora, the mental health professional Louis has been seeing since- since everything.

\- I'll drive you there, ok? To Dr. Taylor. You take your time with Melissa, baby, and I'll be in my room if you need anything and then, after that, we leave, yeah?

There are few feelings Louis hates more than guilt. When he was a small child, he once overheard a conversation between his mother and his grandmother, back when they still lived in London. He hid himself behind a half-opened door, feeling too scared to go to bed alone, hoping that their voices would lull him to sleep. It was late and the two of them had drank wine and they compared guilt to fire, Louis never forgot. His grandmother said that the real problem with guilt was that it's a fire that you can't put out and that it burns you from the inside because you know you deserve it. Louis only felt this undying guilt fire a couple of times in his life and he absolutely hated it; it did burn from the inside because he knew he deserved it. He tried to never feel it again and he mostly succeeded. Louis always thought his actions were adequate, proportional, his jokes, funny and his comments never crueler than what was fair. Growing up, there were few regrets in Louis' life. He almost never felt guilty.

Now, though, now, Louis wants to burn; he thinks he should. Louis thinks he should feel guilty and more than that, Louis wants to feel guilty. He feels like his body is drenched in gasoline as he walks straight into the biggest bonfire to ever exist, flames made out of shame and regret, and instead of being set on fire, Louis appears on the other side of the bonfire, completely unscathed. That's not how it's supposed to be. There are at least four different reasons for which Louis should be consumed by the flames; four different reasons for which Louis should burn. First: Louis should feel guilty by the way his mother is spending all her money in doctor's appointments that they can't afford. Second: Louis should feel guilty for the way his mother reduced her work-schedule, accepting fewer shifts and receiving smaller paychecks, only so that she could take care of Louis, her fragile dandelion. Third: Louis should feel guilty about the way he stopped contributing financially to the payment of their bills, to their house. No explanation needed, Louis simply found a way to become even more useless than he already was before. Fourth: Louis should feel guilty for the way Melissa is the one visiting him and not the other way around; Louis should be the one heading to her house to check on her baby, he's the child's godfather for fuck's sake. Body drenched in gasoline, crying alcohol tears, Louis should burn; he should, but he doesn't. He wants to feel guilty, he thinks he should, but he doesn't feel anything at all.

Louis opens his eyes slowly and yes, he's here. Back to a reality he wishes he never saw again, dragged out of the bottom of the ocean, blinding sunlight assaulting his eyes. Looking around and adjusting to the unwelcome clarity of his bedroom, Louis takes in the same poorly-painted ceiling above his head, the shitty job lazily done by his father years ago; Louis glances at his permanently half-open windows; he recognizes his mother's permanently concerned eyes and yes, he's here. He's back. He wishes he knew how to escape.

\- Good morning, Mom.

❥

The steps of the dark wood staircase are wide, but that's not the reason Louis takes so long to reach the living room. It's not. Taking his time, he climbs down the stairs slowly, feeling each single step against his feet, letting his fingertips run lazily through the handrail. Louis doesn't do it out of displeasure, doesn't do it because he doesn't want to see Melissa; he does. Louis always appreciates when she comes over. The problem is that he needs to buy himself enough time to adjust his humour, his expression, his jokes, to whatever conversation they are about to have. Louis never knows what to expect from her visits. Sometimes, Melissa wants Louis to act happy ("Recovering" is how she calls it, even if they never talk about what Louis is supposed to be recovering from) and then, a second later, her eyes fill with the sort of pity that can only come from those who already have their own life figured out. Louis loves her, but that love doesn't stop him from seeing the way her eyes sometimes shine with a sad, wondering glow that asks "Why can't you be more like me?". Sometimes, Melissa just comes over to cry. Pregnancy hormones, apparently, and so, on those types of visits, she cries on Louis shoulders for reasons Louis doesn't understand and for reasons he suspects she doesn't understand either, and when it's over, she apologizes. She doesn't say it out loud, but Louis hears hers "I'm sorry for bothering you with more sadness than you can carry". She has no idea the amount of sadness Louis can carry.

It's the imprevisibility of the whole thing that makes Louis take so long to reach the living room. Each step is a different emotion he might have to pretend to feel for the next half an hour; relief, sadness, longing, betrayal, stability, recovering. Clueless about the way he can better approach his role as, surprisingly, still Melissa's best friend, Louis is aware of the way he hasn't been the biggest fan of spending his emotional energy in taking care of other people's expectations of his own mental state. Mentally, Louis slaps himself because he doesn't want to sound rude, he's immensely thankful for Melissa and for everything she does for him; it's just that he already wears himself out enough when he's alone; there's no need for anyone's help in that matter.

Finally reaching the last step, Louis takes a deep breath. He can do this, it's just another part of being normal; Louis is normal now. By the time he catches Melissa's eye, he puts on the most neutral expression he can muster, an expression that can be later molded into any other, according to the course their conversation takes today. It's always a surprise.

Melissa is sitting on the living room's couch, looking back at Louis with strong eyes, not cautious, but trusting; Melissa trusts Louis to be fine. It's a good feeling, Louis thinks. Both of her feet are resting on top of the ugly Persian carpet, her belly is getting bigger every day, her hair is in a bun on top of her head and her serious face is an indication that Louis won't have to pretend to be too happy today. Louis is glad, he can feel his shoulders relaxing a bit.

\- Hey, Peaches.

The way Melissa still calls Louis that, probably always will, makes Louis contemplate how small things like this, unimportant and banal, may never change and how he should start to appreciate the stability and the permanence of those silly things in his life. That's not what Louis usually does. Instead, ungratefully, Louis feels stuck in a movie no one else watched but him; he feels like the only reader of a book he can't put down. A book whose author died without signing Louis' only copy of his manuscript, even when Louis was his biggest fan, Louis thinks dumbly. There are these small details, not banal at all, the opposite of unimportant, floating in his mind that he will never be able to share but that will never change as well. Louis loves their secret constancy, their secret permanence. These details will die with him, Louis is aware; no one else can suffer with the characters only Louis knows, no one will cry from a story only Louis read and there's no way Louis could explain the whole plot by now and, even if he did, no one else would understand. It seems too cruel to share spoilers of this particular story anyway, so Louis stays silent, reading the same book in his mind, lonely memorizing its made up words.

\- Hey, Mel.

As Louis takes his seat on the armchair in front of her, Melissa smiles at him with a glint in her eye that wasn't there before. She has a dimple in her cheek and a hand on her belly.

\- He always kicks when he hears you. I think he recognizes his godfather's voice.

Melissa always makes a couple of comments like this one, whenever she comes over, and even when Louis knows she's only doing it to make him feel better, he still appreciates them deeply. Louis smiles back at her and it's his first smile of the day. Carefully, almost expectantly, Louis waits for the guilt-fire from not being a good enough godfather to light up inside his own belly, but nothing comes. The numbness still occupies everything, a flame-resistant safety vest.

It's going to be a boy, Melissa's child. Charles. Named after several different real stories - real stories? - Louis used to tell Melissa only a couple months ago about the purity and the kindness of a man Louis wished he had met. A person Louis wanted to meet more than anything. Charles was a brave man who left this world too soon; a loving soul who ran out of time. The baby's nickname will be Chuck. The coldness that runs down Louis' spine is familiar, it almost doesn't startle him anymore. It burns like dry ice against his skin and it seems to be one of the rare feelings that can hurt through the numbness; a sharp pain drilling through whatever detachment haze that surrounds Louis because Louis is lying. It burns because he knows he is. Chuck isn't the person Louis wanted to meet the most; there's someone more important that Louis wished he knew, wished he met. There's someone Louis wanted more.

\- Reggie asked about you yesterday.

Melissa does this too, every visit. She comes to Louis' house and she speaks as if she's just sharing random information but what she wants is to ask questions that aren't really questions to begin with so that she can get the answers she didn't ask for. It's mostly just a miscommunication between the two of them, but Louis lets her get away with it. If the two of them managed to spend all this time without talking about that - about that, about... him, about everything - then Louis is sure they can get over this just fine.

\- Oh yeah? How's Jack doing?

\- Well...

Melissa shakes her head trying and failing to not sound bitter.

\- Who would have thought the lad had a way for the whole manager thing, am I right?

Louis nods, trying and hopefully not failing to show her sympathy.

- I'm sure you would do way better, Mel. You were the better choice, you know that.

\- Thank you, Peaches, but you know how it is... Reggie has always preferred his boys in charge.

Unfortunately, she's right. Louis nods so she knows that he agrees. There's really no denying it. It would take her double the effort and double the persistence to be treated as an equal at The Lighthouse; to be treated as a man. Melissa is way more skilled than Jack and look where they are now. Louis used to focus only on his own relationship with Reggie, but he knows that Melissa doesn't feel the same way Louis does about their boss, well, about Louis' former-boss.

\- You know, Reggie would, right? If you did come back-

\- Mel, I'm not-

\- I'm not saying now, Lou. I'm saying when- if you eventually come back, he would offer you the job back.

\- No, he wouldn't and that's ok, Mel. I quit and I'm ok with it.

\- You don't look ok.

\- Well, thank you, Melissa, you look lovely as well.

The comment makes her smile small at Louis.

\- I like when your old humor shows up a bit. I know it's still small and I know it's rare, but I miss it.

Louis wonders if the feeling of missing something so much will eventually just consume him or if it will cruelly leave him out to die. Louis wonders how it feels like to feel anything at all.

- I've always been a funny lad, Mel.

Louis says it without any meaning behind it; automatic words leaving his mouth without him thinking about them twice.

Louis says it while still feeling dead inside, but he's functional and no one cares- "and no one really cares as long as you are functional and I wished I felt anger but I'm too tired and I'm not even violent, I'm not violent, I'm just condemned to exist-".

\- You've always been, Peaches, always.

Their small talk doesn't last much after that, not after Melissa already went through all of her tasks when visiting Louis. First: make sure Louis is alive and offer him the small bit of social contact he gets these days. Second: show off her not-so-little belly to Louis, the godfather. Show off her belly where a little Chuck is being brought into existence, a real Chuck, that will be even better in his real-baby life than all of Louis' unreal descriptions of something that never happened, of someone who never existed. Louis is sure of it. Third: ask Louis when he intends to return to work. The last task is the only one left: let Louis' mom cry on her, Melissa's, shoulder. They think Louis doesn't see it and he doesn't, but he hears it pretty clearly. He may be half-dead inside, but he isn't deaf.

It's Louis' mother that guides Melissa to their front door while Louis stays seated on the armchair. Louis doesn't really like to spend more time than he needs to in that specific area of their house. When the whole place is stained with unreal memories, compromised in its entirety, completely ruined, what choice does Louis have other than hating the place where it all started? If he can't really avoid his whole house, he has to choose one particular spot, right? In the past, Louis thought his mother was so deeply traumatized by her own demons that she would never go to their front step again. That's Louis now. Yay. Maybe he just got tired of answering the door to undesirable guests or to anyone who's not Harol- "My english professor once compared poetry to murder, I compare it to the way you mock my name" - anyone who's not him. Louis isn't ashamed to admit it to himself anymore. Besides, it wouldn't make any sense to deny his trauma considering how on the few times he does leave his house, he only uses their backdoor (and his bedroom window that one time, that stupid mistake of a time, that ended up with Louis screaming at the stars at the top of his lungs on an abandoned water tower in the middle of the night, alone; never again).

When Louis' mother returns to the living room, her eyes are a bit puffier than before and she's looking straight at Louis, but Louis pretends not to notice. He lets her admire him for a bit. That's what Louis used to do before, when he knew he was being admired: he used to pretend not to notice and he thought that the boy- the person who admired him liked it that way. It gave him some freedom to explore. Louis knows his mom does, does like to admire Louis without being caught, so he lets her do it for a while longer. Secretly, the fact that she looks at him with kindness, makes his day a little less terrible; makes him feel like there's still something to be admired about him after everything. When her time's up, Louis looks at her face and finds a cautious smile, but it's still a smile. Louis is still her delicate dandelion in a hurricane, but it's still a smile. It's enough.

\- Ready to go, baby?

She asks and Louis will never, never be.

❥

The clinic isn't a clinic. It's a detached garage inside Nora's - Dr. Taylor's - property. Nora and her husband, George Taylor, after a long renovation, transformed their garage into two separate spaces: a medical office for Nora and a "man cave'' for George. If Louis gets lucky, sometimes he can hear the loud sounds of whatever TV show George is watching on Netflix through the thin wall of Nora's office. It's a different source of entertainment. George drinks beer as if it's water and smokes cigars and watches shitty telly while sitting in his leather armchair, all macho man, while Louis tries to find his feet in reality again; the two of them separated only by a thin wall. It's an interesting place.

As soon as Louis and his mother enter the "clinic" and the door closes behind them, she holds his hand, tight. Louis is deeply thankful. In a way, she's more connected now, his mother; more present now that Louis lost everything. Not for the first time, Louis thinks that his little breakdown acted as a siren calling her back to reality, even if Louis is the one who doesn't want to be here anymore.

It's Louis' mom that speaks to the receptionist behind the small counter and Louis should feel offended and impotent and he does, but he's not going to do anything about it. He'll start getting better soon, he's sure of it. The receptionist, whose name Louis never learned, has thick wavy hair, almost orange, and dark eyebrows and looks really similar to the girl in a photograph at Nora's office. Louis suspects the receptionist is Nora's stepdaughter not only because the girl doesn't look anything like Nora while looking a lot like a female version of George, but because this "clinic" is a family business after all. Homemade everything. Louis' mental health is in good hands.

Nora's supposed stepdaughter tells them to wait for a bit, until Nora calls Louis in, and Louis and his mother both sit on the comfy waiting chairs. There's always this familiar smell here, something like anise, that takes Louis back to one of those "special dreams" he once had. Whenever Louis is having an appointment with Nora, that's how he spends his time in her waiting room; he's almost anxious to do it, curious, especially when the waiting chairs are this comfortable. Louis closes his eyes and leans back, breathing in the anise. Then, he starts focusing on the details, those that no one else will ever understand, those that are only his. The white walls, the cold atmosphere, the grey door with the small window - "It's called a glass insert" - and the waiting chairs. Louis doesn't gasp when he hears it, he knew it was coming; Louis just breathes through the pain. This has happened before: hearing words that were never said to him in a voice Louis knows better than he knows his own skin. This is what his "special dreams" represent for Louis now, a chance to create new "special" memories or a chance to visit memories that aren't his. Louis doesn't know which option scares him the most, doesn't know which one he wants more. Sometimes, Louis hears his own voice, saying things he never said before: "We've read about schizophrenia before, haven't we?" and "Will you play your guitar for me when we get there?". Louis knows he never said those things before not to- not to him, no. Louis would have. They always sound exactly like something Louis would say if he had the opportunity, if the situation was the same, if Louis hadn't run out of time to say those things to the only person that needed to hear them. The way Louis behaves in his special dreams, the things Louis says, the way he moves, the way he coughs, his jokes, everything; it's all his; it's him. It's exactly who Louis is and it feels like watching himself from someone else's eyes. From his eyes, Louis thinks, that's how he sees me. Louis takes a deep breath. The special dreams feel like a reckless gift from the universe after causing so much trouble; an apology letter that still twists a dagger into Louis' heart. The dreams are Louis' most precious treasure; Louis' drug; nothing more than lost images from a life Louis never lived and nothing but blurs sometimes, but it's all there -"Hi, kitty. I'm Louis" - and it's addicting. It tastes like replacing lollipop powder with cocaine. Not sweet and sour, but saccharine and corrosive. It's like drinking whiskey from a teacup. Louis keeps his eyes closed, hoping to get another fill, when he hears the door opening and Nora's voice filling the waiting room.

\- Louis Tomlinson.

Back to reality it is. When Louis stands up, his mother raises herself with him and hugs him tight before he can walk away. Isn't she lovely now? A loving mother. If Louis could give himself the privilege, he would worry for her.

\- I'll wait for you here, baby.

As Louis starts making his way to Nora's office, after giving her a short nod of acknowledgement by the door, he considers how ironic it is that his mom is this present now; considers the way he got the things he wanted before, the same things that don't matter after. The universe owes Louis way more than blurry vivid dreams. The universe owes Louis everything.

After Nora's office door is closed behind them, Louis heads to the comfy sofa chair designated for him, as he always does, and Nora sits in her cream velvet armchair, as she always does. The first step for these things, their little meetings, is always the same: Louis stares challenging at her face, suspicious and inquisitive, until she breaks. That's what he's doing now.

Nora Taylor - supposedly Dr. Taylor, even though Louis never saw any diploma that could prove her status in the medical community - is a short, blonde lady; built like a sweet potato; extremely British. The color of her skin always catches Louis' attention, unhealthy yellowish, until she smiles: when she smiles, the dark yellow of her teeth makes Louis think of Van Gogh. Maybe Nora believed that fake story about the paint drinking and tried to make it herself; drink yellow paint so she could feel happy on the inside and make her clients a little less unhappy in the process. It sounds like something Nora would do - as a therapeutic experience or as something new to post on social media - and Louis doesn't even mean it in a bad way. Ok, he does, but Nora looks extremely poor-qualified to be dealing with whatever happened to him in the past. She looks like a school psychologist that helps you decide what you're going to be when you grow up. She looks like the only option Louis' mother can afford. Louis is still completing the first step of his meetings-with-Nora ritual, staring inquisitively at her face, when she says:

\- Everything ok, Louis?

It's a rhetorical question, Louis knows. It's not like she really cares beyond the professional sphere, she's just following her informal protocol so that they can get their session started. While Louis tries to make himself even more comfortable in his soft sofa chair, he can appreciate the effort Nora (not George, for sure) put into decorating her office. She was clearly going for a comfy vibe: the walls are a darker cream shade and all the lighting is indirect; there are several red details like this big clock next to a bookshelf and a vase of roses - "hey, was listening to english rose and it made me think of you" - and it makes the room warmer. The small sofa, the couch and the armchair are all really soft and there's this decorative light wood wall that gives the room a more modern and clean feeling. The whole thing is probably the architect's merit.

Louis gets taken away from his thoughts by the small noise of her digital voice recorder being placed in the small table between them. It's about to start, then.

\- Well, Louis, as you already know, our sessions always start the same way. First, the recounting of the events that brought you here. You're gonna tell me what happened and what's your opinion about what happened; no judgments, no nothing. This is a safe space.

This isn't a safe space. There's no such thing as a safe space, Louis knows. Nora's initial talk is always this nonsensical bullshit. Louis hates it. What Louis went through, whatever magical thing it was, didn't happen to him because he was in danger or anything like that. Louis wasn't away from his safe place when it happened the first time, nor the second, nor the thousandth. If anything, Louis feels unsafe right now, he feels unsafe after, in danger of being left alone. Misunderstood and lonely. In a way, Louis' safe place is what happened to him.

\- Do you think I should call him a missing person?

\- Sorry?

Nora is so easily scared that it should be funny. She's a therapist, for fuck's sake, isn't she supposed to be better at this? Imagine her trying to deescalate a patient going through a panic attack; imagine her at The Refu- "Lou, I'm just so scared" - just. Yeah. She's easily scared. Old-Louis would find it funny. Today's Louis finds it slightly depressing even when he can't say that he doesn't like it. He does. Louis adores the way he always surprises her, stuns her into silence whenever he starts talking. Nora is always impacted by Louis' words, as if they are always shocking. Maybe they are, Louis wouldn't know. Her reaction makes Louis feel almost powerful; makes him feel like he still detains some sort of power inside this whole mess of a universe. It makes Louis' chaos matter, "Make my chaos matter". By constantly surprising her, Louis thinks he manages to somehow mark the universe with his existence. By doing it, Louis reminds the universe that he is alive and that whatever happened to him is still not fair. The universe still owes him.

\- Should I call Harry a missing person?

Saying Harry's name out loud will always hurt in all the right ways and heal in all the wrong ones. It gives Louis a toothache every time, saccharine sweet. Saying Harry's name out loud makes Louis' tongue tingle, the word melting down Louis' throat and tickling the stars that used to be inside his mouth. It always sounds like a promise, Louis can't help it. Even when Louis tries to remind himself that there's no pixie dust, there's only cocaine, Harry's name is still a caress Louis breathes into the universe.

\- Cause that's what he is to me. I mean, is he still called a missing person if I was the only one who saw him?

Confused and still surprised, Nora shakes her head as if that will help her clear her thoughts. She takes a deep breath because she can never handle Louis' initial questions, Louis' shocking opening statements. Nothing new under the sun.

\- Louis, I'm sorry. You know how much I love when you expresses yourself like that-

Oh, Louis knows.

\- But let's follow our usual protocol, ok? That same old sequence? I think it's going to be better for you.

What Nora wants is for Louis to follow "the chronological order of events". That's how she calls it. And, well, that's way too bloody easy: one day, Louis opened his front door and the rest of his life was standing in front of him, smiling back at Louis as if it had been waiting for Louis all along as well. A flustered king, embarrassed and fascinated by a love they have always shared, since the beginning of everything. "My atoms have always loved your atoms". A love that was strong and undeniable and, most importantly, real. "Since the beginning of time, since the beginning of everything. I was made for you. You were made for me". That's the fucking chronological order of events.

Louis takes a deep breath because this is about to hurt in the same way it always does. Louis is about to put on a show and the universe will sit and watch Louis' suffering, rewarding him every night with short visions from a life that didn't exist. Louis takes a deep breath because he's already tired.

\- Well, I had a bad day a while ago-

\- September 6th. Last year.

- I guess-

\- Sorry, it's good for your brain to chronologically place all this information. We should reinforce the dates and the seasons or even the weather, if you do remember it, details like that, into your memory whenever we can.

Louis nods because he doesn't care.

\- Sorry again for interrupting. So, you were having a bad day. What would you call a bad day, Louis?

When Nora asks stupid questions like this one, Louis wants - "I'm too tired and I'm not even violent, I'm not violent" - Louis wants to punch a wall until his knuckles bleed and then he wants to use his head next until he can't think no more.

What Louis would call a "bad day" is a day that makes you think that the last years have been hard, but the last couple of days have been hell. It's a day when you feel exhausted, lonely and trapped; like you're burning from within, watching your life pass you by. If a doctor were consulted on September 6th, Louis knows that he would probably be classified as a patient on the verge of a breakdown. That's what a "bad day" is for Louis.

- I hadn't slept for a while, I hadn't eaten.

\- Hm.

Nora makes these noncommittal noises between Louis' answers whenever she wants Louis to keep talking and Louis will, soon. He just got distracted by the red light coming from the voice recorder. It's recording, Louis knows, since their session started, but he gets suddenly bothered by the idea that his words are existing somewhere else besides inside his mind; his thoughts defenceless and exposed. Why only the wrong things get to have that? Why the things Louis wants to exist somewhere else, the things Louis wants to be real, can't simply be? "Why aren't you real?". The thought makes Louis wince and Nora seizes the opportunity to look down at her notebook. Louis isn't sure if she's trying not to embarrass him, pretending not to have seen his grimace, but he appreciates the gesture anyway. With the exception of these small moments where it seems like she's reading a list of Louis' psychological problems in her notebook and deciding which one to address next, Nora always makes intense eye contact with Louis throughout their session. Louis can see the effort she puts into making these reliable eyes, trying to get him to keep talking. Louis doesn't fall for it, but he pretends he does sometimes. When he's feeling generous.

- I wanted to leave my house, I've wanted to do that for a while. I had a plan.

It's as useless as trying to stop a dan from breaking. Louis doesn't even try anymore. It's a flood. It's an ocean. Louis just lets his fake-memories drown him for a while. There's no stopping it. Louis takes a deep breath and lets it burn.

"I'll follow you across the universe", Louis hears, "If you're afraid. If you want me to". It's suffocating and Louis can feel the tears starting to blurry his vision so he closes his eyes and tilts his head to the ceiling, leaning his neck against the comfy sofa chair. Surrounded by water, at the bottom of the ocean, Louis wonders if it will always hurt like this. "I'll go with you. We can start over, start again, somewhere far away from here... Do you want me to?". Louis is aware that he's not breathing correctly, not breathing at all, really, and the last thing he wants is to scare Nora further than he already has, he's merciful like that, so he squeezes his eyes shut until it stops feeling like he's breathing acid. "We're gonna leave, baby, we're gonna travel and I'm gonna love you in every city we go, gonna love you so much-". No tears fall. "It's a plan". Louis is getting better at this.

\- And, according to your mom, you were really weak that day, is that right?

\- Why would she lie?

The rudeness is inevitable sometimes, during these sessions. Louis has noticed it before; the way he gets snappy, the way he feels the need to attack after being cornered. A perk of being numb is that Louis doesn't feel guilty for it at all. This feels almost like a mental punchbag where Louis can waste away his frustrations. He punches and punches and punches and nothing changes and he still doesn't feel guilty. Drenched in gasoline, Louis walks out of the fire unscathed because the things he feared the most already happened to him.

\- I hadn't eaten and I hadn't slept, and I was going to leave my house and I had drunk a bit, alcohol and coffee, and I think marijuana too, and lots of cigarettes.

Louis wants to shock her with the truth again and he thinks he manages to. Nora is nodding her head as if Louis is this tiny caged animal she's visiting at the zoo, examining and analyzing. "And you're like a bear cub, you know that, right?", Louis thinks and almost vomits in his mouth.

- And then I started running and I fell.

\- You fell.

- I hit my head on the floor and I passed out for the rest of the day.

\- That's what you know now, right? But, before, you thought-

Before, Louis thought he was in heaven, he thought he was safe. Before, Louis thought he was finally home. Funny how that works sometimes, isn't it?

\- I thought I was somewhere else, yeah.

\- You thought you were with someone in those places. There was someone guiding you, isn't that right?

Her notebook is being held open in her hands again and her eyes are going through it at a fast-pace and Louis finds it funny again, tragically funny, because this isn't some sort of forgettable detail. Nora's going through her notes as if she's thinking "Which patient is this again? Oh, right! The imaginary friend one! How could I forget?". Louis wants to break everything.

- He wasn't guiding me like some creepy spiritual entity, he was just there with me.

He was just there with me, Louis repeats to himself.

\- At this coffee shop, in the middle of the woods-

It's called The Refuge, Louis wants to scream, but doesn't move a muscle. An angry statue being psychoanalyzed.

\- Yes, I thought he was there with me.

\- But then, you started thinking he was with you everywhere-

- Not everywhere, no. Just...

Einstein once said: "People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion". Louis wants to wake up in the future. Louis wants to wake up in a future so distant that none of this matters anymore, where all of this barely even exists, a grain of sand in an archipelago. Louis wants to wake up in the past so he can relieve it all over again. Louis read once that we are the light that travels into space; Louis wants to explode and wake up in a different planet in another universe where none of this has happened, where none of this is so painful, where it doesn't hurt like he's melting from the inside. Louis wishes he could time travel through space.

\- I know I made him up, if that's what you're trying to get me to say. I know he was my coping strategy. I already understood that.

It's like swallowing dry ice. Louis spits the words like they hurt because they do. They burn like the lie Louis wishes they were; a shadow that isn't there. They are true, though. It's the truth. Everything was nothing but a coping strategy. "Baby, you are all I ever wanted love to be. You're everything". Nothing but a coping strategy. Still, Louis feels like he's spitting broken glass, bleeding tongue and split lips; suffocating on his blood.

\- That's not what this is, Louis, I'm not your enemy here. We just need to go over everything that happened to you so we can establish where your mind is right now. I was just asking, you could see it-

\- Harry.

It hurts and it heals; toothache and tingling and melting pixie dust and sour cocaine; a promise; a breath.

\- You could see Harry while you were awake. After that incident.

Louis' thoughts play out almost like a music inside his head; the symphony of the lonely lover: "Yes, I could see him while I was awake. I could see him in my bed and he would hold my hand as we walked down the streets of this shitty town and he would recite me poetry on top of a stage and he would love me until I could touch the stars".

\- Yes. I could see him, I could touch him... 

Her blonde eyebrows raise so high on her shining forehead that Louis knows, immediately, that his answer is a bad one; a worrying one; the wrong thing to say. Nora's eyes are wide when she asks:

\- You could touch him?

"From all the things my hands have ever held, the best by far is you", Louis thinks and doesn't cry, doesn't squeeze his eyes shut. It's a victory. Louis thinks that yes, he could touch Harry and Harry could touch him back and he thinks of all the way he melted into Harry's touch whenever Harry loved him with his hands. Slowly, Louis runs his fingers through his inner thighs, caressing the small layer of fat that still lies there. It's getting smaller, Louis thinks, and the thought startles him a bit because Louis never thinks it's getting smaller, getting thinner, even when it undeniably is. Maybe he's slowly disappearing. Maybe he's not strong enough to hold the weight of all of Harry's impermanent promises that were never made to begin with. It's not Harry's fault. It's all Louis'.

\- Yeah, like a real person.

When Nora's eyes still don't go back to their regular size, Louis adds:

\- This doesn't happen anymore, though. I still remember him perfectly-

Now, Louis closes his eyes because he can't resist, always weak and easy for this. Always easy. With his eyes closed, Louis sees a boy that should be a king. Louis tastes the feeling of seeing the color green for the first time in his life; Louis tastes the color pink from wet bitten lips. He sees silky curls with background music made out of giggles and low melodic voices. Still seated at Nora's sofa chair, Louis runs his fingers through the fur of a lion cub; Louis spots a deer tripping on its own paws, clumsy; Louis squeezes his eyes shut. It is, without a doubt, so much more than Louis could ever deserve.

Louis' next thought, though, hits him like a punch to the gut, a bullet in his brain; it hurts like a heart attack. It's the same thought he always forces himself to remember whenever he gets too lost in his inexistent memories. Louis repeats to himself: none of it was ever real. "You imagined the whole thing". "It's nothing but a coping mechanism". The thought brings the same reaction it always does and Louis knows there's a grimace on his face that Nora is pretending not to see, but this is like breathing in acid and choking up on ashes - "Our love is molded out of glitter and ash" - and melting all your organs into a dark gelatine of loneliness and despair. Louis screams to himself, inside his mind: "I made up a schizophrenic lad; I made up a schizophrenic lad; that's all there is, that's all that ever was". He tries to convince himself that there's no need for all this pain, but that doesn't stop him from feeling it like a particularly strong lightning running through his body, exploding all his veins. Louis imagined a sick lad only Louis could see and Louis- "But I will let you, okay? I will let you devour me". And Louis let his own imagination devour him. Someday, Louis is sure he will be able to convince himself of that. Not today, no, but someday.

- But that doesn't happen anymore.

Louis hopes he doesn't sound as sad as he truly feels since it's probably impolite for a patient to mourn the loss of their hallucinations in front of their therapist. It's probably rude, probably a bad sign as well.

\- So the hallucinations have stopped?

\- Yes.

This time, Louis knows he fails on his mission of disguising his sadness, but he can't really help it. Is there a polite way to ask your therapist to bring your hallucinations back?

\- Good. That's good, Louis. About your work-

\- I'm still on a break, yeah.

\- Don't you think it's time to come back?

She doesn't need to ask, Louis was already picturing his possible return to The Lighthouse. Closing his eyes again, Louis thinks about the street he used to walk on his way to the bar, thinks about its facade and its side door. Louis thinks about The Lighthouse's stage - "I will always wear my hair down for you"; "That was the closest thing from perfect I have ever seen"; "Did you like it?"; "Whoever invented this language didn't anticipate you, Curly" - and he thinks about how he will probably pass out if he ever enters that saloon again.

\- Soon.

Nora nods, her inquisitive eyes in full force.

\- About your cellphone-

That's a delicate point and Nora knows it is. The cellphone. It used to be one of the lowest blows to Louis' attempts at convincing himself that he was fine, way back in the beginning. It ruined every single attempt of convincing himself that he wasn't going insane. Louis tried to explain to Nora on several different sessions how he felt about the series of text messages he apparently sent to an unknown North-American number. All of the texts were never answered, weren't even received (thank God) and it's just a pathetic reading. It's just Louis talking to himself, sexting himself, making jokes alone, answering to the silence on the other side; it's absolutely horrendous. There's no way Louis could describe the feeling of rolling through his own phone, reading the unilateral conversation; he felt ashamed and embarrassed. When he first saw it, he felt crazy. Still felt crazy any time he saw it after that first and so he spent a couple of months without his phone, trying to heal and forget. There's no way to really recover from the sensation of not being able to trust in yourself; the sensation of realizing you were detached from sanity, from reality.

\- I'm having access to it again.

\- Good. I think that's a good thing, really.

Louis doesn't care what she thinks.

\- And have you been controlling yourself?

Louis scoffs because he can't help to. He feels like he's suffocating in his own blood again, but this time it's boiling from anger. It's lava.

\- Controlling myself?! You wanna know if I have been texting random numbers, texting strangers, pretending it's my imaginary friend again? No, I haven't. I'm fucking controlling myself alright.

Nora's scared, surprised look is back, but she tries to disguise it as comprehension, nodding her head and blinking her reliable eyes.

\- You called him your imaginary friend just now, do you want to talk about the relationship you had with him?

Honestly, Louis knows that there are two answers for that question. The first one is no. Louis doesn't want to talk about the relationship he had with Harry to anyone, ever. It's embarrassing and it's sad and it's not therapeutic, it only makes him feel so, so alone. It makes him feel left behind, betrayed; it makes him feel like crying until he goes blind. The second answer is: "Please, yes. Please let me talk about Harry until my voice fails, let me talk about how I was happy, let me tell you about all the ways I was loved. Please. We mixed water and oil, we brought the world back to its axis, we created a supernova; please let me tell you all about him". The second answer usually wins because this is the only place Louis can really talk about Harry and that's an absurd concept by itself. Louis thinks he should be able to shout about Harry from the rooftops of every city in which Harry promised to love him. The world deserves to know about Harry Styles. Maybe, if Louis shouts loud enough, if Louis stays in the same place, if Louis goes to right place to begin with, maybe the physical-Harry (that's how Louis calls him in his mind; Louis' Harry was real enough for Louis to name "physical-Harry" as "real Harry"; it would be offensive) will appear. Yes. Maybe physical-Harry will appear and rescue Louis because there's no way Louis could have come up with all that Harry was, is, it isn't humanly possible to-

\- Louis?

Louis only realizes he's crying when she calls his name. Wiping away his tears with his hoodie sleeves, Louis shrugs his shoulders that are getting thinner every day. This is the only place Louis can talk about Harry; so why not?

\- Sure.

\- Ok. Perfect. So, how would you describe your relationship?

Louis thinks: "The first time I saw him didn't feel like the first time, it felt like everything I have ever lost came back to me. He was my lifelong best friend from a life I didn't live. I spent eternities in love with him. We shared paradise in the shape of an island that was only ours, surrounded by an ocean we commanded. He was my moon. The only truth one. He promised we would start our lives over, he promised we would do it together, he promised he would love me wherever we went. He ran like Bambi and my memories are all mixed with my dreams by now, but I think he called me Thumper once. I like the idea that I was his Thumper. I think his laugh cured cancer and he's the only one who doesn't know, I think he had so much light that the flowers, the beautiful pink ones, grew towards him; I think he made me immortal. He was pretty when he cried, he was a king to my heart, he was my own north star. It sounds silly to think of him as my boyfriend because he was so much more; he was my best friend, he was the love of my life, he was my soulmate. I think we will always be connected, even if the only place he exists is in my mind. I would let him exist in me. Sometimes, that's exactly how I feel, as if a part of his soul got trapped inside of me by accident. I carry it around like a medal".

- He was always bothering me to eat. 

Maybe that's how a supernova feels when it dies.

\- Yes, Louis. I think this is the most important point we need to discuss today. Considering that it- Harry. Considering that Harry was a manifestation of your subconscious, don't you think this was a way your mind found to try and help your body get better? It seems to me that you were unconsciously trying to get better.

There's never- "Unless you want me to force-feed it to you. I can get into that". There's never going to be a way for Louis to rationalize what he went through and that's what Nora is trying to do right now. She speaks objectively about feelings and emotions she doesn't understand. She speaks as if she could ever fix the wreckage Louis carries around as a brain. Nora will never plug the Harry-shaped crater inside of Louis' heart.

\- I have considered that, yeah.

\- The fact that Harry disappeared-

Louis coughs so he won't puke.

\- May symbolize a passage for you. It can mean that your body is ready to take care of itself, assuming responsibility over your own health.

She nods harder as if that will convince Louis and obviously it won't, but Louis ends up nodding back at her. Even if she's wrong, even if Harry abandoned Louis behind, slipping out of his universe without a trace, even if Louis' memories and Louis' dreams don't make sense, Louis nods back at her.

\- You're getting better, Louis. I know you are.

Every sneaky kid knows that you only get better at lying by practicing it. Louis is a professional.

- I agree.

He doesn't.

\- You do realize now how absurd it is for you to open-

\- Yes.

\- For you to open your front door-

The way she chooses to keep talking even when Louis already agreed with her sounds a lot like she's trying to humiliate Louis with his previous perception of reality. Louis wants to punch a wall until his knuckles bleed again and then he wants to use his head next until he can't hear her no more. Deaf. Lost in the silence. Far away from this humiliation.

\- As you claimed in another one of our sessions, and see Harry standing there?

\- Yes.

Louis can taste iron in his tongue from how hard he's biting at his lips.

\- You don't believe this anymore, right? This whole scenario...

There are moments, late at night, when Louis goes over all the different ways that Harry was exactly what he needed. In every sense of the word. On these moments, Louis wonders how he never realized how absurd that sounded. Louis feels guilty and stupid - oh, so stupid - for the amount of happiness he thought he deserve. He feels arrogant, he feels greedy. "But I get so greedy sometimes, baby-". And the worst part is that Louis thought he deserved it for all of his life: clearly, in his mind, he and Harry were a sure thing, a lifelong deal. It's embarrassing and it makes Louis angry, frustrated, and his anger is set on fire by Nora's condescending tone and before Louis can control it, his voice is already too loud, too sharp. He's back to his mental punchbag, wasting away his frustrations through rudeness.

\- I'm not fucking stupid, I know when stuff is too good to be true.

And that's a lie right there if there ever was one. Harry was the most real thing Louis has ever felt, ever touched, ever kissed, ever loved. The only thing that made sense. Harry was everything.

Nora only nods.

\- Ok, so we can progress to our next thought.

She speaks in black and white while Harry showed him colors, but Louis nods anyway. Louis nods like it matters.

\- I think the reason Harry left was because you don't need him anymore. Do you understand that? Do you agree with it?

She is wrong, but Louis can't tell her that. Louis can never be rational about the topic, can never make up his mind, gets too confused and too emotional, but the way Louis sees it, there are only two options if Harry's real, if he exists somewhere else besides Louis' mind. Physical-Harry. The first one is that Harry's fine. He disappeared because he got healthy, he recovered, healed and is past the point of needing his connection with Louis. The idea is a bullet through Louis' heart but that's not the point. If that is the case, Louis will stop being selfish one day in the future and will stop moping around because Harry's fine and that's all that matters. Louis will be happy for him someday. He knows he will. The second option, though, represents all of Louis' biggest fears condensed in a single thought; a single drop of poison made out of terror. "Oil", Louis thinks nonsensically. The second option is that Harry disappeared because his own demons got to him, his devourer monsters. Harry isn't with Louis anymore because Louis didn't find him in time to save him, didn't know there was a physical-Harry to be saved in the first place. Otherwise, Louis would have crossed the universe in search of him. Whenever Louis thinks himself into a panic attack by tasting the second option for too long inside his mouth, he tries to comfort himself with the idea that Harry was too good for this world to begin with. It never works as a comforting thought, but Louis tries.

- I guess.

\- So now, the focus should be on putting your life back together, whenever you're ready. Work and maybe college...

"Your dreams are valid, sweetheart". Louis swallows dry ice again and smiles through the blood on his tongue, split lips and broken teeth chewing on shards of glass.

When the large red clock rang, announcing that their session time was over, it was the fastest that Louis has ever moved.

❥

Returning to Nora's waiting room, Louis finds his mother waiting for him just like she said she would be, a hopeful glint in her eyes as if she believes that this one therapy session is the one that will save Louis for good; will fix him. Louis doesn't want to crush her expectations, doesn't want to wash away the hope lighting up her face, so he smiles a kind smile at her. She looks satisfied when she sees it and on their way to the car, she doesn't let go of Louis' hand once.

It's cold outside the "clinic"; the light, uninterrupted rain only adding to the chilly sensation. Louis is shivering against the wind and when it gets this cold, he always gets grumpy. The icy weather makes him miss summer and summer makes him think about sunrises and sunrises remind him of Harry's smiles and sometimes, even if Louis will always appreciate their beauty, sometimes Harry's smiles only make him sad. As soon as Louis gets on the passenger seat, he turns on the air conditioner on the hottest set possible. At the same time, his mother turns on their windshield and starts driving.

\- Gonna stop by the Maplewood really quick, ok? Get us some food for tonight, see if we can try to eat something.

She says it as they leave Nora's driveway and start driving through an empty street surrounded by leafless trees. It's a melancholic scene for a melancholic boy. When her cellphone syncs in with the car's Bluetooth system, the song playing doesn't help. Louis should have never introduced her to Hozier.

_My lover's got humor_

_She's the giggle at a funeral_

_Knows everybody's disapproval_

_I should've worshiped her sooner_

_If the Heavens ever did speak_

_She's the last true mouthpiece_

_Every Sunday's getting more bleak_

_A fresh poison each week_

Rationally, Louis feels dramatic. Emotionally, the way he leans his forehead against the cold window glass and watches the raindrops falling like tears from the sky seems perfectly appropriate. He's not even crying, he's getting better at this. Louis can see the way his mother is looking at him from the corner of her eye and it's easy to read her worried expression: she's concerned that all the progress Louis made during his magical therapy session with "Dr. Taylor" is being washed away by the rain. Louis doesn't have the heart to tell her not to worry because there was no progress at all.

_"We were born sick", you heard them say it_

_My church offers no absolutes_

_She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom"_

_The only Heaven I'll be sent to Is when I'm alone with you_

_I was born sick, but I love it_

_Command me to be well_

_A- Amen_

_Amen_

_Amen_

Going over her comment in his head, the one about tonight's dinner, Louis notices that she now understands how it works with him: they will try to eat something tonight; not eat, try. Good for her. She's a different mother after than she was before. It's almost as if they developed a whole new dynamic in their small family. She never used to cook before, was never even home during the meal hours, look where they are now; grocery shopping for their happy family dinner. It's as funny as it's sad. She's working fewer shifts as well now, which gives her more free time to spend with Louis (taking care of her hurricane dandelion), and again Louis almost doesn't feel guilty about it.

_Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

_Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

As they park in front of the Maplewood, Louis' mother kisses his cheek once, a small peck, after their unspoken agreement that he will wait for her in the car, and closes the car door softly - back to walking on eggshells, then - before making her way to the convenience store. She walks slowly, lazily, even when it's raining and it makes Louis think, for the second time in his life that, for lonely people, the rain is a chance to be touched.

Through the driver's window, Louis can see Margareth behind the Maplewood's counter smiling sweetly like she always does. After months of overthinking every single detail, every single conversation, every single kiss, Louis determined that Margareth was the only person who ever saw him interacting with Harry. The cataract eyes of an old lady at the Maplewood; that's where all Louis dreams come to die. It's funny how we miss unimportant details like this one - "You'll meet him soon enough, Mel"; "Someday, mom, I promise" - when we are lost in a haze of supposedly everlasting happiness. It's not the first time Louis has seen Margareth since it all happened, but it feels like it is because for the first time there's this urge inside of Louis' chest telling him to get out of the car and just ask her. Ask her. Louis wants to storm inside the Maplewood and shout: "Hey Margareth, are you sure you haven't seen the curly-haired giant that used to follow me around like a lost puppy?". He wants to shout: "If you haven't, my lovely Margareth, why did you let me walk around talking to myself like a pathetic fool?"; Louis wants to ask: "Don't you like me enough to tell me, Margareth? Am I not a good enough client for you? Don't I deserve to be told?". It's a barely-controllable desire. Louis knows he's beginning to lose his touch with reality when the idea of shouting at an old lady seems appealing and totally reasonable. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans the passenger seat down so he is almost at a horizontal position, staring at the car's ceiling.

Keeping his eyes closed, Louis breathes slowly through his mouth. Inhale. Exhale. He knows he looks like a worse version of himself like this, a sadder version, but he can't really help it. Sometimes it just hits him out of nowhere and he feels frail again, breakable, a weak dandelion. People think that heartbreak is this concentrated pain, but it's bullshit; it hurts everywhere. "Everywhere". It's not romantic, it's not dramatic nor beautiful. Louis refuses to romanticize this painful version of love: for him, it was death and he was forced to keep living. He doesn't even feel alone, alone would be if he still had Harry here. Louis isn't alone, no, he is a half; abandoned and left behind by his own mind tricks, by a soul he can feel pulsing inside his chest. It's not fair for Harry to exist at two places at once. Louis has the right to be heartbroken, the universe owes him at least patience. Heartbroken isn't always a pillow-muffled cry at the late hours of the night; sometimes it's an empty car under a light rain, after a shitty therapy session, when you miss them so much you don't know what to do with your hands. Louis will have that pillow-muffled cry later tonight anyway.

Louis once read this short poem that said:

_That_

_Unannounced was the way_

_in which you entered_

_My life_

_I imagined;_

_Therefore I guess_

_that_

_Unannounced would be_

_The appropriate way_

_I imagined for you to leave it._

Whenever Louis thinks about it, it makes him want to cry. He tries to tell him that they are still connected somehow, he and Harry, but the certainty, just like Louis, keeps getting weaker and weaker. Louis wants to scream at the stars that they were soulmates, but what does soulmate even mean? "What I meant to say, Louis, is that soulmates aren't just lovers. They are the whole package. They are the friendship, they are the love. They are everything". Louis once told Harry, half-joking, that without him, Louis would be miserable at best. Louis was right.

The last song his mother's phone plays for them, before they leave the car is Jaymes Young's "I'll be good". Louis will try as well; he will try to be good until Harry decides to come back to him.

❥

There are still five steps left until they reach their front porch, but Louis already has his hands inside his back pocket, grabbing his keys. He wants to keep this quick. He hates the sound their front door makes when it opens, hates the way it once tricked him, the way it betrayed him. Louis doesn't want to stand there a second longer than he needs to. Whenever he approaches the front door, it's almost like he can feel the soft tangerine smell again, tricking his nose, asking Louis whether he can still feel it, can still remember it correctly. Louis fears the day he won't. Just out of safety, he closes his eyes before handing his mother his keys and breathes in a smell that isn't there, Louis' secret "Harry's smell", absolutely inexistent, all Louis'.

As they make their way through the traitor front door, Louis takes a peek from the corner of his eye at the pottery vase; the one Harry used to touch with his inexistent hands. The vase is the place where Louis now keeps a secret copy of his keys, an extra one, just in case. He made another copy for himself. Harry would know where to find it. Just in case. Still peeking at the vase, Louis recalls the first weeks after - after it happened - when things got pretty bad and he was still lost in a delusional denial: Louis filled the pottery vase with sunflowers, hoping they would act as a compass, pointing Louis' way to Harry, Louis' sun. Louis' mother took the sunflowers away before Louis could see them dying.

Once inside their house, Louis' mom kisses his cheek again and heads to the kitchen. Louis goes in the opposite direction, straight to his bathroom. He takes off his shoes on the way and the bathroom floor is cold against his bare feet. Louis locks the bathroom door and his loose clothes just fall off like a flower losing its petals. Whenever Harry saw the scene happening in front of him, he would call it "A prettier version of The Birth of Venus". The thought still makes Louis blush till this day.

Louis' shower strategy is, once again: "may the burning water heals us all". He turns the hot water on until his skin turns red in the hope that he will feel something, anything. He does. He truly does. The numbness gets weaker sometimes during the day, which makes Louis consider this one a good one; a good day. On days like this, Louis has a stronger faith on the fact that Harry (physical-Harry) did exist and that their souls did connect, wherever Harry truly was. Louis thinks, hopes almost, that Harry was having a day as bad as Louis' on September 6th and the universe allowed them to find each other; to save each other. A love that would mark the Cosmos, would make the chaos matter. The universe created this unbreakable connection between them and they were exactly what each other needed. Louis suspects the universe let them be together out of mercy: how cruel and cold-hearted do you have to be to sit and watch silently as two soulmates don't find each other during their lifetime? If you have the power to, how do you not intervene when you see them searching desperately for each other and not having any real chance at finding what they are looking for? The universe is merciful, Louis thinks, even when it has taken back everything it once gave Louis. Louis wishes he knew whether he managed to help Harry, he hopes he did. Maybe that's why their connection was interrupted, because Harry's well. On the good days, Louis is an optimist.

In the silence, surrounded by nothing but hot water, Louis breathes the question he wishes he could ask Harry into the universe, sends it into the night sky as a kiss: "Do you think the universe fought for our souls to be together?", Louis asks Harry. It's a beautiful question, Louis thinks, it's a caress.

The question makes Louis think about Pinky and about how he will have to remind himself to write the question down on its pages later tonight. Pinky is the small, pink - obviously - notebook Louis bought himself almost two months ago. He keeps it inside his nightstand drawer and on Pinky's pages, there's nothing but questions and random thoughts Louis wishes he could share with Harry and no one else. It's everything that only Harry would understand and that Louis would suffocate if he kept carrying inside his chest and nowhere else. It's supposed to be therapeutic. The first thing Louis ever wrote on Pinky was the whole lyrics of Queen's _Love of my life_ \- " _Love of my life, don't leave me. You've stolen my love, you now desert me. Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back. Don't take it away from me because you don't know what it means to me_ " - after a particularly vivid "special dream" with Harry. Louis dreamt they were singing the song to each other while lying down at their flower-bed at The Refuge. It was a sad dream and Louis remembers it perfectly, especially the full treetops and Harry's melancholic eyes, a rainbow made out of green shades only. The last thing Louis wrote was a quote from Dostoevsky that he thought Harry would adore. It goes like: " _I was with someone I loved, with you. I was cold, and the snow glistened. You know how the snow glistens at night when the moon shines. It was as though I was not on earth_ ".

Not all days are good, though, Louis thinks as he turns off the water and starts to slowly return to his haze of numbness. On the bad days, Louis is 100% certain that he made the whole boy up; the most beautiful hallucination a person could ever see. Whenever Louis thinks about it too much, overthinks the way he managed to come up with Harry, he remembers he once read that you spend your whole life rewriting the first poem you ever loved. Maybe that's how Louis came up with Harry, by rewriting everything he ever loved in the shape of a boy. Days like these are empty and sad and makes Louis think that everything is tragic, really, and that the only thing he needs is psychological support and time to absorb the trauma.

After arriving at his bedroom, Louis finishes drying himself up and puts on his comfy pajamas. Then, he heads to the kitchen for dinner and once he gets there, he sees that everything is already done. The table is set and the food is ready. Louis' mother did everything without his help: the setting up, the cooking and the cleaning. She acts like this at night sometimes; walks on eggshells by not asking Louis' help for anything, afraid of bothering him into an anxiety attack like it happened that one time. Only once. She doesn't need to be so careful. Secretly, Louis is glad that she didn't ask for his help because Louis is aware that he's not the greatest company at the moment.

When they sit in front of each other at the kitchen table, their place to connect, Louis can almost taste the heartache in both of their faces; the melancholy and the sadness. Alarmed, Louis thinks that his mother now looks at him in the way he used to look at her. She doesn't look at him like he's unhealthy, no, she looks at him as if they are equals. In some sort of sick and strange way, after everything, Louis has finally been accepted inside his mother's detachment haze. It's almost like they shared a fantasy or, better yet, like they dreamt together, even if each one of them was dreaming a different dream. Louis understands how it works now and he wishes he could have it back. Sanity is a cozy lie, overestimated. Louis can almost recite his thoughts from before, before everything happened: Louis thought he wouldn't be afraid of going inside; he thought the real problem was always the long intervals of horrible sanity and he was right. This is what Louis is living right now; a long and horrible interval of sanity. This is what he's forcing his mother to go through every day. He hopes someday he finds a way to apologize.

Looking at her sad eyes from under his eyelashes, Louis wonders about the way she must have felt that day; finding him passed out on top of their Persian carpet. Louis wants to apologize for that too. She managed to take him to his bed - which must not have been easy, considering how they have approximately the same weight - and watched over him for the whole day. Meanwhile, absurdly, Louis was dreaming about The Whipped and about The Refuge while in reality he was still passed out on his bed. Louis googled it once. It's a memory he keeps locked deep down inside his chest under a thousand lockers whose keys he threw out. There's a coffee shop named The Whipped. It exists. The problem is that it exists in California, five thousand miles away from here. When Louis first found it, he started screaming so loud, running so maniacally through the house that his mother took away his phone. The whole experience is lost in the fog of those first few days. Louis never searched it again.

The simple explanation doesn't involve Louis dreaming about Californian coffee shops in the middle of the woods. The simple explanation is that, on September 6th, Louis hadn't slept or eaten right for days; his emotional state was compromised and he was about to run away from home. He fell and passed out. All the elements combined might have led him to start hallucinating, creating a coping mechanism; "an imaginary friend". Even if Louis could feel inside his chest how real Harry was, swimming in veins, sparkling inside his mouth. Louis felt it desperately. "I wish he could have felt I was real too", Louis thinks and doesn't understand his own mind.

Either way, Nora's - Dr. Taylor's - theory is that Louis created this imaginary friend to help deal with his eating disorder. A coping mechanism that would bother Louis into eating healthier. "Oh, please. He wants me to bother him for the rest of his life". When Louis tries to convince himself of that theory, he gets the burning urge to throw his plate, still filled with food, into the nearest wall and refuse to bite a single fucking pancake, a single fucking strawberry if that's what he needs to do to get Harry back here with him. Louis won't do it. Not again. He's trying to get better now, even if it means not thinking about anything and accepting the numbness, embracing reality.

The dinner ends with half of the food being thrown away, with no tears and no smashed plates on the floor. Louis considers it a victory. He knows his mother does too.

❥

The moonlight is peeking at him from the space between his half-opened curtains, her melancholic radiance as a distant cuddle, but Louis is ignoring her tonight. He's lying on top of his blankets and concentrating on the way the fresh night wind dances lazily around his body, writing goosebumps onto his skin. His eyes are fixed on the poorly-painted ceiling and his eyebrows are furrowed, but he's not really seeing anything right now. His heart is beating slowly, rhythmically reminding him that the pain is still there, but so is their connection. Surrounded by the half-darkness and by the silence, Louis surrenders. He lets himself feel.

Gently, Louis's eyelids close, eyelashes touching cheeks, because the darkness makes it easier, makes it safer. When his greedy brain starts to confuse the delicate breeze with all the different ways Harry's hands have touched his body, hungrily worshipping it, Louis wants to scream until he loses his voice. He wants to shout: "How fucking dare you leave me behind, you fucking bastard? How dare you play hide and seek with me? Am I supposed to spend the rest of my bloody life searching for your stupid arse? What the fuck do you expect me to do now, Harry? What am I supposed to do with me life now, hm? Fucking twat! Fucking tosser! I dare you to show your face, I fucking dare you, please, Harry, fucking show me your face again! ". Instead, he takes a deep breath; lets his heartbeat return to its correct pace, synchronized with the cadence of the rising and falling of Harry's chest. Into the open air, into the dark night, into the universe, Louis mutters a small and shy "Hey, love".

It hurts when there's no answer, no sound but the silence of the stars above, but it would have hurt way more not to say anything; not to try. Swallowing his sadness that tastes like golden honey, Louis lets the tears fall as they may, creating little heart-shaped stains on his pillow. Louis hasn't slept on a pillow that isn't at least a bit wet for months now, it's ok. It's ok.

\- How are you today?

The lack of an answer hurts a bit more this time, a blazing heat that not only burns Louis' skin, but brutally melts his insides. The weight of the sluggish lava on his chest holds him down against his bed. Louis tries to breathe again because otherwise this will be over way too soon, Louis' words incomprehensible beneath all his crying. Louis knows how bad he can get, sobs and uncontrollable hiccups, and he hopes Harry knows it too; hopes he's listening to Louis crying his heart out from somewhere above, from somewhere above reality, from somewhere beyond love.

When Louis starts thinking about the way that he is, once again, alone in his bed, speaking to the emptiness of his bedroom, absolutely gone for a person he never met, suffering for a love that never even happened, he feels pathetic.

His next words are a painful confession ripped from the inside of his lungs.

\- I thought we'd had more time.

And so the sobbing starts. Louis tries to keep quiet so that he won't wake his mom up, not again.

- I feel... I think I feel homesick and-

There's an ending to that sentence, but Louis' hiccupping gets in the way. He's angry because his words are starting to get incomprehensible again and he really wishes he could explain to Harry what he means by homesick, but if Harry was here to begin with, no explanation would be needed. Harry would understand Louis' incomprehensible words, would understand Louis' silence, would understand that Louis means "You're my home, please come back". Harry always did.

Louis tries to continue.

\- Well, Mel's belly is getting bigger, I know you'd love to see it, and Jack's doing a great job at The Lighthouse apparently.

Rubbing his nose on his pillowcase, Louis takes a deep breath.

\- And life is changing a bit but my love for you stays the same, yeah? Always.

Louis focuses on the thought with all his leftover strength because he believes that if he does it hard enough, if he does it in the right way, he could send the message across the world; could send it to whatever sacred place it needs to reach; could send it to Harry.

\- My heart still pounds at the sound of your name. I'm sure it's pulsing in the same rhythms as yours. Wherever you are.

When Louis is alone like this, in a way he never was before in his life, consumed by his sadness and loneliness, it's harder to think of Harry as a coping mechanism. There's this urgent need to apologize to a Harry that isn't there for ever doubting his existence. Louis doesn't apologize because his heart would stop before he managed to get the first word out, but Louis knows that Harry would understand him and would forgive him for ever doubting their love. "We are in sync", Harry would say, Louis is sure of it.

On nights like this, Harry is real; he's a gift from the universe, rewriting everything Louis has ever loved. Louis' north star. On nights like this, Louis wonders if Harry imagined him too; if Harry came up with someone who was perfect for him as well and that person was his Louis. Louis wonders if he would have been perfect for Harry just like Harry was for him.

- I think you wrote your love in my skin with letters made out of light, Haz, that's why we can't always see it, yeah? \- Louis takes a deep breath before he continues - Doesn't matter if we can't see it all the time, right? It's engraved on us, on our souls, on our hearts. It will never be erased, right? Never forgotten.

Louis knows that he sounds like he's pleading into the void of the universe, begging for answers that no one can give him, but he's not. That's not what's happening. Louis isn't shouting at the stars anymore, he's communicating. He knows he is. Harry can feel it too, can feel Louis' words against his soul, wherever he is now.

Keeping his eyes closed, Louis stretches his hand until his fingers bump into his nightstand drawer. Louis opens it and grabs the marker he still keeps there. The marker that writes letters made out of light, the marker that betrayed Louis in the same way his mind did, even if that doesn't matter anymore. Feeling the marker against his fingers, Louis opens his eyes. Surrounded by the almost-darkness, he can still see his forearm. He stretches it in front of his chest. Louis uncaps the marker and writes on his forearm, in capital letters: SOULMATES NEVER DIE. Because they don't. They never do.

Once, when thinking about the complexity behind his mother's mind, Louis thought that if he could shape reality's barriers as easily as she can, he would become the god of his own paradise. He would create heaven in his mind. A kingdom of bliss. A utopia of delight. A universe of pleasure. Oceans and oceans of honey and roses. Constellations of laughter and nebulae of fondness. Louis realized that was the difference between them, Louis and his mother: if Louis could, he would drown in a sea of euphoria. He would die of passion before sadness. Maybe, that's what he did. Maybe, that's what he did.

The thought is crafted with pure honesty, but it still makes Louis taste ashes inside his mouth - "Our love is molded out of glitter and ash" - coughing lollipop powder, sweet and sour, choking on pixie dust. They mixed water and oil together. They became immortal.

\- You wouldn't leave me behind, would you, love?

Harry wouldn't; would never leave Louis behind, alone on this planet without half of his soul. Louis just has to wait.

\- The best thing I do is wait for you, right?

In the silence, Louis remembers his voice, sweet as honey, kind as love: "Don't be so impressed, I always know where to find you".

- Like the ocean finds the shore, yeah?

In the silence, Louis thinks "Harry will always find me" and the thought gives Louis more room to breathe; makes a sunflower start to grow inside his heart; pulls him into the universe by his north star's gravity. Slowly, Louis closes his eyes; eyelashes meeting cheeks.

It's 01:18 am.

It's been only 11 hours since Louis last slept.

Only 5 since he last ate.

As Louis begins drifting into sleep, into unconsciousness, he repeats to himself that all this waiting is not in vain. Sticking around until Harry eventually finds his way back to him is a reason to stay alive. And is there anything more marvellous than finding someone who makes you stay alive? Louis Tomlinson, one last time, a romantic boy. Harry should be proud.

❥


End file.
